


Assing It Up: Three Years in Kirkwall

by MaverikLoki, Ywain Penbrydd (penbrydd)



Series: A Comedy of Assholes (Rhapsody, etc.) [34]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assassination Attempt(s), Chantry Politics, Dalish Elves, Dalish settlement, F/M, M/M, Political Alliances, Political machinations from forty years past, Politics, Rebuilding, Sea Battles, Too damn many Amells, Wedding Planning, Weddings, dicks and sass turns political, free mages, post-boom Kirkwall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-29 09:12:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 152
Words: 324,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6368758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaverikLoki/pseuds/MaverikLoki, https://archiveofourown.org/users/penbrydd/pseuds/Ywain%20Penbrydd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Chantry comes down, the Hawkes are left to help Kirkwall recover, but without one of their own. The circle needs a new First Enchanter; the city needs a viscount and a grand cleric; the bulk of the population needs help rebuilding and repairing the damage from decades of neglect. And Sebastian returns to Starkhaven, to plot his revenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This runs in tandem with [By the Petty Crown](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5626165), which will start _properly_ on March 30/31 (depending on where in the world you are). A chapter from the middle of that one was posted first, as a gift.

## The Kirkwall Gazette Brings You the Viscount Maybes

### Anton Hawke, Lord Amell (Gazette fave!)

Anton Hawke, of the Kirkwall Amells, the man who filled in where the Chantry could not reach, has put himself forth for viscount! Lord Amell is widely known in certain circles for his intuitive grasp of political niceties and when to dispose of them. His 'Sausage Party', last season, was a timeless event that would have put even his grandfather's grand balls to shame. Aside from heartily outdoing the last Amell scion, he seems to follow in Aristide's footsteps with his outrageous events and nearly profligate generosity. Despite these obvious outward shows of nobility, the man's closest friends include elves and mages -- his own father having been one of the most famous apostates to escape the Gallows! Look to Lord Amell for financial stability, equal rights for all citizens, and an increase in festivities.

* * *

### Merrill Sabrae

Next amid our horde of hopefuls for the position comes Merrill of the Sabrae clan, known for her unflinching defence of mage and elf rights. A Dalish scholar, she has been an inspiration for our elf community with her headstrong views and unflappable humour. Don't let her petite frame fool you -- she is full of ideas! Though she promises to be a source of change for her people, she wants to uplift all the people of Kirkwall, elves and humans, nobles and servants alike. Look to Merrill for strong morals and conviction and for the kind of changes Kirkwall needs!

* * *

### Orana of Tevinter

Formerly a slave, this delightfully sweet elf has a variety of estate management skills she assures us will work just as well at the scale of a city. Her experience working with ill-tempered magisters has left her with little fear of angry mages, and a strong spine, when it comes to declining the poor plans of others. She's literate and fluent in two languages, and has the ability to carry on a conversation and compose bid replies without writing what she's discussing, which is a rare talent, even among Chantry clerks. Look to Messere Orana for strong leadership and management skills!

* * *

### Comte Guillaume de Launcet

Comte de Launcet is, obviously enough, already the Comte of some Orlesian locale. While, in theory, this would bring with it years of leadership experience, the fact remains that he is the Comte of somewhere he does not even live, and besides that, he's Orlesian. Why would an Orlesian nobleman flee to the Marches, if not to escape the aftereffects of his own poor governance? If chosen, will Viscount de Launcet do the same as Comte de Launcet and flee the city, to avoid governing in person? Look to Comte de Launcet for Orlesian weaselling and questionable devotion to his lands.

* * *

### Aveline Hendyr

Kirkwall's very own Guard-Captain has thrown her metaphorical hat into the ring -- and possibly her sword too if she catches anyone trying to steal it! Kirkwall owes her safe streets to Aveline's iron fist, and any poor fool who has been on the receiving end of her glare knows how formidable the Captain is*. In her first year as guardswoman, Aveline risked her career -- and her life -- to expose a conspiracy between then Guard-Captain Jeven and the Coterie, saving many lives in the process. Look to Guard-Captain Aveline for honesty and adherence to the law at all costs.

*editorial note: she is terrifying.

* * *

### Madam Lusine

The proprietress of the Blooming Rose has decided she'd like to try her hand at governance. She already rules what could easily be a small township worth of prostitutes, and they might be the best source for information on her governing style. The Gazette has received some replies on the subject, but they've been largely unprintable, due to the indelicacy of their phrasing. It should be noted that Lusine is an equal opportunity employer, but she has a strong dislike for foreigners -- particularly those from Ferelden -- so her relations with other governments may be a bit rough. Look to Lusine for business sense and equal opportunities for all skilled workers.

* * *

There is a persistent rumour that Varric Tethras is a candidate. This is completely untrue. Please do not vote for Varric Tethras. As the man himself says, 'What would I do with a whole city? I don't need a city! I have half a Rivaini beet farm! It's more than enough!'

* * *

* * *

"Now, I know this kind of thing isn't real big in most places you'd get to, but the nobles have been overruled by the Seneschal, and all of you get to help pick the next viscount," Varric explained, sitting on the edge of the table. "We got any miners in here?"

A few hands went up.

"Good, good. Now, the miners are used to this whole voting thing. They've got a union where everybody gets together to decide if things are good or if they need to be different. And part of how they do that involves voting. Basically, all you have to do is pick the thing you like and take the rock they give you at the door and put it in the box that's painted with the thing you want. After everybody puts their rock in, some people come in and count all the rocks, and then we know who the new viscount is. It's pretty easy. We do it all the time in the Merchants Guild." Varric waved a hand dismissively. "And, yeah, sometimes the thing you want isn't the thing that happens, but sometimes it is. It all depends on how many people want the same thing you do. And it doesn't even matter if they're important people, this time, because everybody gets the same kind of rocks. What you want is just as important as what some snooty prick with a thousand pieces of gold wants, and there's more of you than there are of them. So, if you guys all go up there and vote, it's not going to matter what the nobles want."

"What about you? Can we vote for you?" a tailor asked.

"Me? Nah, you can vote for the people with their pictures on the boxes. There's six of them, from what I know. Some real fun people, too. Only two nobles -- Lord Dog and some Orlesian ponce who can't tell his ass from a doorframe." Varric laughed and thanked Edwina as she brought his drink. "I don't want to be Viscount, anyway. Too much prettying up and bowing and handkerchiefs."

"Varric!" called a familiar voice from the door. The crowd around Varric shifted, parting around the shouter as she shoved her way towards him, cheeks the same red as her hair.

"Ah, and here's one of our candidates now!" Varric cheerfully declared, dropping from his seat on the edge of the table to put the heavy piece of furniture in front of him.

"Oh, am I?" snapped Aveline, dropping a copy of the Gazette onto the table between them. "From the way you write, you'd think a she-dragon were running for viscount!"

"I don't know what you could possibly mean, Guard-Captain," Varric said, free hand on his chest. "Whoever wrote that piece about you seemed to have nothing but the greatest respect -- and a healthy amount of terror -- for you. But, while you're here, why don't you tell your adoring fans about what you plan to do as viscount?" He patted the table. "Come on up so the nice people can see you."

Aveline froze like a deer, eyes round. "I..." She looked around, suddenly painfully aware of the number of eyes on them. "This is... not the time, Varric." She started edging back towards the door, the Gazette crumpled in her hand.

"You're never going to win, if you keep on like that!" Varric remarked, over the top of his tankard. "Who's going to bring order to our fair city, if you can't even face your adoring public?"

"Oh, I'll bring order to this city, but someone else is going to have to bring a happy smiling face to the public. My job is to protect these people, not entertain them." Aveline continued to edge toward the door.

"And there you've heard it from the candidate, herself! Protection, not entertainment," Varric announced to the group around him. "Not very personable, but very good at her job, and totally unafraid of mages or templars, from what I hear."

An urchin ran in as Aveline ducked out the door. "Message for Messere Varric," the girl announced, holding out a scrap of paper, obvious, in the very quality of it, to have come from somewhere in Hightown.

Varric slipped the girl a coin, as he read the message. "You tell Lord Dog I'll come up and see him after I've finished with these people, here. He told me he could handle Hightown on his own! What's a man like me going to do in a place like the Rose?" He shook his head. "The Gazette supports Lord Dog," he pointed out to the collected group. "Supposedly a very compelling choice, given the alternatives. But, I'll read those to you and let you decide for yourselves."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The debates begin! Anton vs Madame Lusine.

"Messere Hawke," said Madame Lusine, her smile the cold, threatening kind, "please get down from that table. I'm not paying you, and neither is anyone else in this room."

"Payment, madame?" Anton said, placing a hand over his chest, still looming over her. "No, no. I merely wish to address my adoring public. I always do that for free. In fact, I can do one better. A round of drinks, on me!"

Anton counted out his coins to cheers from the room's patrons, blithely ignoring Lusine's glare.

"You can address your 'adoring public' outside of my building," groused Lusine, taking his coin anyway, "instead of trying to buy their votes with my drinks!"

Anton's expression didn't change, but something in his posture did, just enough to give Lusine pause. "My coin. Your drinks. Seems an even balance. But, if you're feeling left out, you could always join me on the table." He waggled his eyebrows at her. "For a debate, of course. A rousing discussion of our political values, and our plans for the city. All while our audience sits back with a drink and a copy of the Gazette."

"I'm not sure I see what's to debate. You're a profligate Fereldan wastrel and I'm a hardworking native businesswoman. We all know who anyone with the sense to not show up drunk will be voting for." Lusine sniffed and eyed Anton like something she'd scraped off her shoe. Certainly he'd put a lot of money into the Blooming Rose, over the years, but who could be certain he hadn't taken just as much out, winning it at cards from people who might have spent it on entertainment and drinks.

"Ah, but there are rumours of your tyranny and anti-Fereldan sentiment. Those won't serve you nearly so well as my contributions to the well-being of Lowtown's merchants and beggars." Anton's smile was divinely serene.

"Fereldans? Who cares about Fereldans and beggars? These things are decided at the top. They always have been, and no amount of posturing and offering ballots to illiterates is going to change that." Lusine shook her head. "Most of the power in Kirkwall passes through this room. They know me!"

"Who cares about Fereldans? Why, Lord Dog, the Doglord, that's who." Anton grinned, triumphantly. "The doglord beggar who came back to claim his mother's noble legacy, and has been doing a spectacular job with it, if I do say so, myself. Which I do."

"And is that how you plan to sway your mob?" Lusine said, folding her arms across her chest. Still, over her shoulder, she met the bartender's eye and motioned for drinks. Perhaps if she got the fool drunk enough, he would incriminate himself or at least come out looking like a buffoon. More of a buffoon. "By giving false hope to these beggars and refugees?"

"False hope? No! The hope I bring is anything but false!" Though he spoke to Lusine, he projected his voice. 

"Ah yes," Lusine said, cutting him off before he could elaborate, "because any of them might also have a parent of Kirkwall nobility! How wonderfully optimistic of you."

"Oh, for the love of-- Anton, what are you doing on the table?"

Anton looked up from scowling at Lusine to see his uncle slump onto a barstool. "I'm explaining to dear Madame Lusine why I'd make a better viscount."

"Oh good," Gamlen grunted. "I was afraid you were about to start dancing." Turning his back to his nephew, Gamlen waved down the bartender.

"Imagine a city in which the roofs don't leak. A place where you can get a healer in the middle of the night -- where epidemics don't sweep through the population because the servants have no access to healers. On that note, imagine a city with healers -- and you can blame the former Knight-Commander for our current lack. Imagine a Kirkwall without demons under every doorstep. This is what I hope to be able to bring you," Anton pronounced to the crowd. "A world in which you need not fear mages or templars -- where your sisters and sons won't be stolen from you, and their Maker-given talents corrupted and left untrained and dangerous."

"And how's this different to Tevinter, exactly?" Lusine asked, bringing up every Marcher's most compelling objection.

"Because in Tevinter, the mages are in charge of everything. In Kirkwall, we don't want them in charge. We want them using their magic as the Chant directs -- to serve the people, not rule over them." Anton smiled slyly. "How many of you own little magical things -- self-heating teapots, cold-cupboards, shielded hats? You're already letting magic serve you. I want to open the way to let it serve us all, _better_. And more than that, to use it to create safe, stable homes for the poor and the refugees, so they don't feel the need to try to rob the lot of us, just to try to get something to eat, or a warmer coat. We make them comfortable, and we make ourselves safe."

"Well, that all sounds lovely," Lusine said with an unfriendly smile, "but how do you plan to maintain that? Will you pay the mages or will they be glorified slave labour? If you pay them, will the money be coming out of your pocket? And will the templars keep a close eye on every use of magic? Meredith was sick in the head, but she at least acknowledged the dangers of magic. With all the demons and blood magic this city has seen, do you think the people are going to embrace your plan so readily?"

"The mages are here of their own free will," Anton went on, meeting smile for smile, "and they'll provide what services they can in exchange for room and board. The templars will keep an eye on them, just as they always have. We've lost more lives from lack of healers than to demons, and paranoia helps no one. I am, however, deeply curious as to _your_ plan, then, since you are so intent on defeating mine. Or on trying to defeat mine." 

Sabina passed with a tray of drinks and offered one out to Anton, who took it with a wink.

"I think it's time for the elves to become full citizens of Kirkwall," Lusine argued. "I also think we need a new Chantry, spreading the Maker's word across this fair city. It's the Chantry's duty to deal with the beggars and the refugees, not ours! It's not a political issue. It's a religious one, and now that we have no Chantry, you're right, we are in danger! There's no one to keep these people under control!"

"So, you're aiming for control, instead of actually fixing anything?" Anton asked over his pint, hip cocked as he listened to Lusine go on.

"Control will fix things," Lusine insisted. "These people have no moral centre. They need the Chantry to guide them and care for them, to keep them out from under our feet."

"So you're claiming the moral high-ground," Anton said, his tone neutral. He let the irony speak for itself.

From the doorway, Varric shook his head at the scene. Anton still stood on his table, looking down at a pinched-face Lusine over his tankard as they argued. At the nearest table, a few patrons watched and exchanged coins. 

"Do I want to know why you're on a table, Lord Dog?" Varric called out to defuse the building tension. Anton and Lusine looked up as he sauntered over. "I mean, your clothes are still on, so I'll take that as a good sign."

From his seat at the bar, Gamlen nodded. "That's what I said."

"See? Now you have me agreeing with your uncle," Varric said, coming to a stop in front of Anton's table. He was used to looking up at the Hawkes but he didn't usually need to bend his neck back this far.

"Just the man I wanted to see!" Anton hopped down from the table, somehow not spilling his drink. "You and I, we have to have a talk about those handbills. Was that really wise? Didn't they quote cheaper, originally?" His voice dropped, as he stepped closer to Varric.

"Of course they quoted cheaper. You didn't say anything about colour in the original proposal." Varric shook his head. "Come on, buy me a drink, and we'll talk printing."

"Not here," Lusine declared. "There will be no campaigning in my establishment."

"Except your own, of course." Anton winked, finished the drink, and left the glass as he clapped Varric on the back and they headed for the door. "Come on, let's go have a drink in the garden of Thedosian delights, and you can tell me everything I need to know about not making another stupid mistake with the printer."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Concerns about the alienage, now that there are less obstacles to bettering conditions in Kirkwall.

The Alienage was a reasonable distance from the Chantry, or at least from the crater the Chantry had become, so the damage was not as bad as it could have been. Merrill found that a comforting thought as she stared up at the debris caught in the Vhenadahl's branches and then down at the caved-in homes, the collapsed bit of stone that used to be her entryway.

"Amazing," Theron mumbled, looking around. "I did not think this place could look any more depressing, and now..."

Merrill swatted one of his arms while Artie swatted the other.

"Ow! What? You can't tell me this isn't depressing!"

This time, the smack came from his wife, though it was less of a smack and more of a kick to the ass. "Your manners are what's depressing," she said, unfazed by the wounded look on Theron's face.

"I think there has been enough destruction here without anyone demolishing my ass!" Theron protested. His hurt look shifted into a coy smile. "At least in that way."

Fenris heaved a long-suffering sigh and exchanged a commiserating look with Carver.

"And now that we're completely done discussing Theron's ass, how's this looking, Master Brosca?" Carver asked the dwarf who was poking around the bases of some buildings. 'Master Brosca' because Natia was here professionally, and as the only dwarf, it seemed important to maintain her credentials.

"It's horrible," Natia replied, still getting used to the idea that on the surface, a casteless dwarf could become a 'Master' of anything. "Typical human construction, mostly, and really cheaply done. It's a surprise it even made it this long, even without the shaking from the Chantry. You want my advice? Pull it all down and start over. You need some good dwarven walls in here. Dwarves don't fuck around when it comes to walls. Dwarven construction will last millennia, and it can support all those little things surfacers like, like windows."

"Are the windows going to break less?" Carver asked, looking around. "I clean up a lot of broken windows, down here."

"Depends on why they're broken. At the very least, they'll break differently, because they'll be properly fitted in stone, with lead fixtures, not this wood sh--" Natia cleared her throat. "Wood changes size and shape, as it ages. You'll never get as good a seal, with wood, even with wax."

"What if it were living wood?" Merrill asked, absently.

Natia blinked, her expression unchanging. "Living wood?" she asked. "Is that a magic thing, an elf thing, or a we're-going-to-need-to-hunt-down-some-sylvans thing? Either way, not... really my area of expertise."

"What?" Merrill said. "Oh! Oh no, the poor sylvans. No, no. I meant, what if we rebuilt the Alienage out of trees? Or parts of it, anyway. I'm just rambling, again. Saying my thoughts aloud."

Natia looked no less confused. "I thought wood... came from... trees?"

"It does," Theron assured her. "But, I think what Merrill is considering is shaping the trees, using magic?" He looked at Merrill, who nodded. "Yes. Without chopping them down or chopping them up. Living trees. Living wood."

Natia rocked back on her heels and tried to picture it. "Huh," she said, head tilting to the side as she considered the Vhendahl, the way the branches arched out like jagged threads of a spider's web. "I'm not sure that would solve the window-breaking problem. Wood is wood, right? And wouldn't the trees still grow?"

"They would, wouldn't they." Merrill hummed disconsolately, studying the buildings around them. "What do you suggest?"

"Stone, obviously. Kirkwall's got some very good stone. They used to export it to Minrathous, even." Natia looked around. "And levelling the ground, first of all. Half your problems are that. But, make sure you get some stone cut, first. I can get you a good deal from a nice dwarven quarry. They know how to cut right. But, you're all going to be a little... You'll have to find somewhere else to go for a few months, while we actually get this going." Natia shrugged. "Sorry about that, but this is bigger than just some repairs. On the bright side, you'll come back to warm, dry homes as good as or better than the construction in Hightown. Smaller, though. Not much I can do about that really."

"Doesn't Varric have that nice place in Hightown?" Merrill suggested. "The one with all the elves and cakes?"

"Or some of you can come stay with us, for a while," Theron offered, eyeing the thin, tired elves around him. "You'll have to learn to do some hunting and gathering, but it shouldn't be too bad."

"I'll pay to send up some food with them," Carver said, finally. "Not enough, probably -- I can't afford that, but something to get them started."

"We'll make sure everyone is taken care of, one way or another," Artie said, nodding, even if he knew that was probably more optimistic than he ought to be. The logistics would be a headache, but if they were going to be rebuilding parts of Kirkwall, they would do it _properly_. "I'll have a talk with Varric. Most of these elves have jobs in the city, which would make living on Sundermount difficult."

"I'm going to end up babysitting their children, aren't I?" Kalli sighed. "Theron's brought me enough kids!"

"Now, vhenan, don't be selfish," Theron protested. "Those kids were for the whole clan! You just happen to hog them."

Merrill scratched one foot with the other, still looking unsure. "More stone?" she sighed. "I don't... Well. I don't mean to be rude, Master Brosca, but doesn't Kirkwall have enough dwarfy architecture? Well. Most of it fake-dwarfy, I know. And not that I don't like it, because I do, but. We're elves. And it's a struggle to remember that sometimes, when I look around this place."

Natia struggled to find an answer, one hand cupping her chin. "I still recommend stone," she said, shaking her head. "But that doesn't mean it has to look like the rest of Kirkwall."

Merrill and several other elves studied Natia inquisitively, waiting for her to go on.

"Keep talking," Theron encouraged.

"That up there is Tevinter styled," Natia said, gesturing at the stairs. "It doesn't have to look like that. If you show me what elf-styled should look like, I can take some sketches to the right people and make sure we end up with the right shapes. We had some pretty cool stuff in Orzammar, even if I wasn't in a position to appreciate much of it. And I bought a book from Kal-Sharok, where they've got statues of Paragons on the front of some of their buildings, with the doors between their legs. That's a little much, but there's all kinds of things we can do to make it look like elves live here. Trees, too. Just need to plan for them and space them out right, so they don't grow and rip everything up. We could fit a couple more trees."

"Halla," Carver suggested. "Every human I know associates halla with elves. I don't know if that's really right, but it definitely says 'elf' in the city."

"I could draw the signs of the gods," Theron offered. "Maybe they'd look good over doors or something? Oh, and you definitely need a Fen'Harel statue, up on those steps. It faces out. For protection."

"How about a gate?" one of the elves asked. "If we're talking about protection, a gate sounds like it would help."

"No." Kalli's expression went steely in a second, and she glared out at the crowd. "We had gates in Denerim, you know. Separating that Alienage. They were used for protection, sure. To protect the shems from _us_."

Artemis eyed her warily. " _From_ you? You mean they locked the elves in?"

Kalli's smile was anything but friendly. "Except for the elves the 'Vints tried to sell into slavery, yeah."

That sent the crowd muttering and exchanging worried looks.

"That won't happen," Carver promised, and Artie nodded in agreement.

"If anything," Artie said, "I don't like how there's only one exit and entrance into the Alienage." He tipped his head at the steps. "Well. One exit or entrance that... doesn't lead into sewage. This very easily could have been a slaughter when the Qunari invaded. As much as I like to think that Kirkwall has worked all its trouble out of its system, it is better to be prepared, and if we're tearing everything down to start over anyway..." Artemis shrugged.

Natia hummed, frowning. "That might be a bit more ambitious," she said, "but it's something to consider."

"Latch the sewer grates from the outside," Kalli suggested. "If you can go down them, other things can come up through them. Nothing that uses a key, but definitely something that can't be opened from underneath. And dainty princess Hawke over here is right -- you definitely need some way not to slog through sewage down there."

"Blocks," Carver said, suddenly. "If you put tall blocks of stone along the wall of the sewer, you can stand higher than the shit. It's still going to smell gross, but it doesn't involve the time of cutting a whole new tunnel."

"Doesn't your brother have maps of the old Tevinter underground city?" Merrill asked, looking up at Carver. "I wonder if we can't get into that. No one would be looking there."

"Wait, what?" Theron looked confused. "There's a city underground? You know, they said Arlathan sank into the ground, but this is the first time I've heard of a Tevinter sunken city."

"You must not read the Gazette, except for a certain page." Fenris smirked at Theron. "There's been articles about it for years. Someone wrote a whole series on discovering the historical treasures of Tevinter, under Darktown."

"But, is any of that _true_?" Theron asked, looking confused, if mildly excited.

"Of course it's true, Theron." Merrill shook her head and smiled. "I went there to kill a demon with the Knight-Captain -- er, Commander, now -- and the Hawkes. Oh! And the time Anders and I went to get that book. You were there, Artie! But, if we cleared out most of the unfriendly spirits, that could be a very good place. It's built very well, and it isn't full of sewage."

"Yeah, but notice the use of the phrase 'most of'," Natia said, eyeing them askance. "'Don't worry, guys, _most of_ the angry demons are gone!' 'The place is _mostly_ safe!' Not reassuring."

Carver shrugged, exchanged a look with Merrill and conferred silently with her in the twitch of one eyebrow. "Well, that's what we're here for," he said. "Sort of. It's something we can take care of, at the very least. Turn mostly safe into completely safe."

"Who's 'we' in this equation?" Kalli asked. "Templars? Hawkes? You and your elf posse?"

"Well, you can't expect me to bring dainty princess Hawke along," Carver said, to Artie's great offence, "so not Hawkes."

"Excuse me," Artemis protested. "You are _not_ calling me that. _She_ is not calling me that." He pointed accusingly at Kalli. " _No one_ is calling me that!"

Kalli turned to Theron. "He's a cranky princess Hawke."

Artemis growled, and Fenris wrapped an arm around his waist, trying desperately not to laugh. "Please don't force push her into the water, Amatus."

"Templars," Carver said, firmly. "It's the duty of the templars to fight demons, and Ser Cullen and I are pretty good at it."

"Bravest of the brave, brave Ser Shemlen!" Theron sang, loudly and melodramatically, and Carver glared murderously. "No, but he really is good at it. Kalli and I were with him for a nasty one, on the mountain. Merrill brought us along when she went to go, ah, clean up a Tevinter mess, up there."

"A demon threatened our clan," Merrill said, quietly. "Five people died. I knew them. I liked them. If I'd only understood what was happening more quickly..." She shook her head.

An older elf stepped out of the crowd. "But, you did understand, and you saved the rest of them, didn't you?" she asked, patiently.

"Yes, Hahren Reeba. I know what to look for, now, but--"

"But, nothing. You're young, Merrill. Would any of us know what to look for? Did anyone else in the clan see it? No. You saw it. You understood it." Reeba reached out and patted Merrill's arm. "And now, you'll be our Keeper. Imagine that! An alienage with a Keeper. I wish we still had any of _our_ mages, but poor Huon was taken by the templars first and the demons after, and young Feynriel has gone off to Tevinter to study. Of course, this all depends on the Knight-Commander keeping his promises."

"Cullen doesn't make promises he doesn't mean to keep," Carver said, lifting his chin. "We may have a little trouble in the beginning, and I'm sorry for that, but it takes a while to break old habits."

"At least there's no Meredith to contend with any more," Artemis muttered. "That alone should improve things." And that was something he hadn't even thought about, with the new changes: the Alienage able to have its own Keeper. A part of him was still waiting for the Divine to react, to launch an Exalted March on Kirkwall after all. That would be their luck.

"All right." Natia cracked her knuckles and rolled her shoulders. "We have some planning to do. Come on, you skinny louts. Let's get inside with some parchment and see what we can sketch out. You said something about wolves, elf-boy? We'll get you some wolves. You want trees? We'll add trees." As she spoke, Merrill led her to the ruins of her home. The foyer was a mess, but, Merrill insisted, the kitchen should be relatively clean. At the least, it had a table and some supplies.

Artemis exchanged a look with his brother. "Were we included in the 'skinny louts'?" he asked.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen makes some decisions about the future of the Order, in Kirkwall. Merrill, Natia, and Artemis continue to discuss renovations to the alienage.

This office was bigger, better lit, something Cullen had noticed every time Meredith had summoned him into it. What he hadn't noticed before was how much smaller it seemed without her presence. It was his now, Knight- _Commander_ Cullen's, and Cullen settled into the chair behind Meredith's -- his -- desk, leaning back until the wood creaked. But no matter how he sat or stood or leaned, Cullen couldn't shake the feeling he was trespassing.

"Commander?"

Cullen jumped, his chair almost toppling backwards. "Yes, Keran?" he said, righting himself and his dignity. Past Keran, Carver loitered in the hallway.

"I have the paperwork you asked for, ser," Keran said, thumbing through the papers in his hand before handing Cullen a few sheets. "And Carver's here to help us move your things from your old office."

"Because I love being used for manual labour," Carver said with false cheer.

"I... well, I'm not sure there's much to move, really," Cullen said. "The furniture is staying. It's mostly books." One or two of which were Orlesian and embarrassing, now that he thought of it. "I'm sure I can manage."

"Well, we're here. We'll get it. You've still got to sort out all the records and figure out what to do with everyone," Keran said, filing the rest of the papers he was holding.

"Everyone," Cullen scoffed. "Less than half of Kirkwall's templars are alive and not locked up, downstairs. You've been making sure they get their lyrium? They're eating more than bread and water?"

"And the torches are lit, most of the time. There's some of them thinking of coming back around, I've heard. This isn't how Meredith treated her prisoners, and if you're willing to be so kind, after they've been such shits, maybe there's something to you, after all," Keran explained, looking around the office. "Looks like the Tranquil did a real job in here. You can hardly tell there was a fire."

"They do good work, and it's time we appreciated it." Cullen shoved files around on the desk, looking at the names of templars, and trying to figure out what had become of all of them. "Bring me the names of anyone who wants to change sides. I'll look at their records and see what we can do. I'm not taking all of them, most likely -- I don't know that all of them can be trusted, and right now, most of all, I need visible representatives of the Order who can conduct themselves with some measure of respectability."

"Which is definitely why you've got Carver working for you," Keran teased.

"And why he's usually in charge of latrines," Cullen drawled.

"Hey, I cleaned those latrines in a perfectly respectable way," Carver retorted. He looked around the office, trying to gauge where there was room for what. "What's in that cabinet?" He pointed with his chin.

"Cabinet?" Cullen turned to see what he was looking at and promptly flushed. He and Anton were acquainted with that cabinet. "Uh, nothing exciting," he said. "It's... roomier than it looks, though."

"Back to what you were saying about respectability and representing the Order," Keran said, and Cullen was relieved by the change in subject, "who're you going to promote to Knight-Captain?"

Carver stopped poking around long enough to look at the two of them.

Cullen leaned back in his chair again as he considered. "I, uh. I hadn't thought about it." Which he should have, he knew, but he'd already had too much on his plate.

"Not your friend Samson," Carver said, quickly, shaking his head. "It's not that I don't like the guy, just fine, socially, but all that time on the street, trying to get lyrium out of the Carta, it did something to his head. I'm sure he'll be fine working with us, but you can't make him captain."

"He's got a point," Keran agreed. "The guy's not all there. I'd support him for a promotion, but not that high."

"How about I give him Knight-Corporal?" Cullen asked, looking for Samson's file. "Just enough to say we trust him, not enough for him to do much real damage, if the lyrium gets to him?"

Carver nodded. "That's where you've got me, and I think he'd be able to handle it. You want me to keep an eye on him?"

"Sure. Thanks, Carver." Cullen nodded and made a note on the file, moving it into a pile he'd designated for promotions. "I don't know if I said it, Keran, but I've got your name on my list for Knight-Lieutenant, once we finish digging through all these names. I'd bring you up to Captain, but two inexperienced captains in a row? They'd eat us alive. We need someone who's been around longer and isn't lyrium addled or locked in the dungeon."

"It's sad when that narrows our options so much, isn't it?" Keran said with a weak smile. "I appreciate you even considering me, Commander. And I'm happy to have any promotion, really." Behind him, Carver rolled his eyes.

"So who does that leave?" Carver asked. "Does it leave anyone?"

Cullen folded his hands on his desk. "How about Thrask?"

Keran brightened, but Carver's eyebrow twitched up at the name. "The fool who had a part in kidnapping my brother? I mean, it was just Cormac, but still."

"From what I understand, he was always against that part," Keran said.

"Well, that's nice of him," Carver sneered.

Cullen held up a hand for quiet. "Thrask is a good man. That particular decision may have been questionable, but it was a desperate act. And we all remember just how desperate Meredith made us at the end."

"Did Denis make it?" Keran asked, after a moment. "Because sure, cycling our discards back to Val Royeaux would get them out of our hair, but I don't think I want to unleash that on any other unsuspecting Circle."

"Ser Penis was the first on the pyre," Carver replied. "I dragged him out, myself. Heard about Ella. Sorry about that, you know."

"Not as sorry as she is, but I'm sure she'll be happy to hear he won't be bothering her or anyone else, again." Keran shook his head and stared at the edge of the Commander's desk. "How did it get so bad? How did it get so bad that we needed fake Tranquil, to protect the mages from, well, _us_?"

"Because the Templar Order isn't designed to encourage dissent -- everyone's too afraid of what happened to Samson, what happened to me. And that really shouldn't happen to anyone. Write that down. We're not doing that to people." Cullen looked distressed at the idea. "Really, write it down. I'll sign it. We'll hang it in the hall. It's not right to separate a templar from his lyrium -- even a retired templar."

Keran took notes. "We're going to end up making a lot of changes, I think."

"We need to look back to the foundations of the Order, and what the Chantry hired us to do. Because a lot of what's expected of us now isn't why we're here. I'll sort it out. One thing at a time." Cullen groaned and leaned back, nearly toppling the chair. That was it. He was bringing his own chair in from across the hall.

"Ella still got the scar?" Carver asked. He hadn't seen her much, since the battle. They'd each been busy with different aspects of bringing the life back to the Gallows.

"None of the healers can get rid of it. New damage, they can do. Scars, though, it's too late." Keran shook his head again. "I don't really understand, but I guess it makes sense. It's already healed. You can't heal it again."

"Well, come tell her to take a look at my face," Cullen joked. "She can worry about my scar and I'll worry about hers, and you can keep flashing your unblemished face around like the hero people need to see."

* * *

* * *

The three of them sat around Merrill's new table -- the old one didn't survive a piece of the ceiling falling on it, which wasn't surprising, really, and Carver had demanded a few sovereigns from Anton to buy a new one and replace all the windows in the alienage, since it was 'all Cormac's fault anyway, and it's his money'. The new table would be much less wobbly, once the floor was solid again, but for now, it had a slice of a wine cork crammed under one leg, to brace it against one of the dips.

"Oh! Theron drew these for us." Merrill smiled, adding a few sheets to the pile of paper on the table. "They're the statues of the gods that our clan travels with. And Fen'Harel, who we don't travel with, but he sits outside all the camps. We don't really have much room, so it's probably best to put them on buildings. Oh! Buildings. Do we have space for everyone?"

"So, the other nice thing about dwarves is that we have stairs," Natia joked. "I'm looking at some ideas with multiple homes stacked up, so you use less space on the ground, but everyone gets more space inside." She glanced around Merrill's tiny home. "A lot more space. Not the size of his house," she said, pointing at Artemis, "but four times the size of this place, easy."

"But, what about the people who can't climb stairs?" Merrill asked.

"We could give them the ground-level ones. Or I could make those into ramps instead of stairs, and you could push people up them." Natia considered it, staring into the corner of the ceiling as she rubbed her chin. "I have to think about this, but I'm sure we can make it work."

Over Natia's shoulder, Artemis tilted his head, trying to get a look at Theron's drawings. He snorted a laugh in Natia's ear. "His art hasn't improved much, since we were kids," he said, and Natia let him slide the paper his way. "He used to doodle with sticks in the dirt. But I recognise these shapes. The gods... this one is Andruil, right?" Merrill nodded. "He always did like drawing her." Around the doodles of elven gods, Theron had sketched in trees with intertwining branches. For all its lack of detail, the shapes were fluid, curving, light. "Now, what about a garden? We have the Vhenadahl, of course, but..." He shrugged at Merrill, who smiled back.

"In what space?" Natia asked, rubbing her forehead. "The Alienage isn't exactly a big place to begin with, and I'm trying to use every inch efficiently."

Artemis nodded as he considered. He tried to picture it, houses on top of houses, the zigzag of stairs. "What about the roofs?" he said. "There should be room up there for some decent-sized gardens. We could give each household plot, and they could grow trees, flowers, vegetables. Whatever they like."

Merrill rocked up onto her toes in delight. "Ooh, there's an idea! I like that idea."

Natia looked between the two of them. "That's a thing? That's possible? I will never understand the limits of the surface."

Artie nodded. "It's a thing. And we could use plants decoratively elsewhere. Let me -- Merrill, I don't suppose you have a quill and ink I could use? And possibly some fresh paper. If not, Theron left some room in the margins here."

Merrill leapt up, tripping over her chair, as she darted across the room for paper. "I have some here. I always have some. You never know when you're going to need to send a note!" The return involved much less tripping over things, and Natia looked relieved when Merrill sat down again, handing several sheets of paper to Artie.

"So, a garden on the roof?" Natia asked again, watching Artie sketch something out, all quick, straight lines. "Nothing too big, or you've got to worry about the roots getting into the cracks and busting up the roof. If there's one thing I've learned in Kirkwall it's that the trees are dangerous to the roads."

"It's because no one in Kirkwall trusts magic," Merrill said, shaking her head, sadly. "There are definitely enchantments for that. If you show the tree an easier way, it'll take it. Most things like to go the easy way. Of course, you have to give it an easy way to go, too. Maybe they dug too shallow or too narrow. Trees need a lot more space than it looks like they do. But, the vhenadahl doesn't push up the streets."

"I'm still amazed that there's magic for that," Artie said, not taking his eyes off the paper as his hand moved. "But then, I've seen you strangle bandits with roots."

Natia tried but failed to keep the alarm off her face. She'd never feel safe around plant-life again.

"Well, that's a more extreme example," Merrill said, scuffing her feet against the floor. "And I always put the roots back," she rushed to assure Natia.

"Oh, good," Natia muttered.

"But, still, that's something we could do." Artie chewed on his lip as he looked over his sketch, head tilted. "And we could have some fun with it, depending on how much shaping you are willing to do. We could have hanging gardens! Could we have hanging gardens? It would make Kirkwall less dreary and provide some lovely shade in the summer." Artemis added some more scraggly lines to represent plant-life.

"Wouldn't that depend on always having a mage available?" Natia asked, studying the lines. "I mean, plants grow. If you need magic to make them do that, do you need magic to keep them doing that?"

Merrill shook her head. "Once you make the shape, you can make it stay like that with regular gardening tools. There are some things our crafters made out of living wood... but that wasn't here. Sundermount is more open and less forgiving. We had some nice arches in Orlais, though. Ilen's work is amazing."

"You made arches out of trees, and they stayed that way?" Natia was still trying to imagine that. "Is that like those weirdo nobles with the trees that look like dogs and stuff?"

"Oh! Yes!" Merrill smiled brightly. "There are some of those in the viscount's gardens. And didn't your brother used to have some, Artie? It's a lot like that. You don't need a mage, you just need a really good gardener!"

Artemis's ears flushed at the mention of his brother's garden, but he did remember that, trees forming arches over the walkways, bushes ensuring privacy. "Indeed. Those were very... lovely gardens. Lovely trees."

Natia sat back, brows knit as she glanced over Artemis's drawing. The structure was more or less what she'd had in mind, but the placement of the stairs and the plants were elegant. Not the sort of thing she was used to building or repairing, but Merrill was all but vibrating with excitement. "We could work with that," she said. "Stone structures, dwarven made." She paused to pluck the quill from Artie's hand, sliding the paper over to make a few adjustments. "Sturdy, but roomy. You elf and mage types can take care of the decorative end of things. We'll go over measurements and placement later. First, hand me another paper, Merrill, and let me show what I was thinking for inside..."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artemis receives a letter. The viscount election begins.

Orana set Artemis's tea down on the side table, an envelope tucked under his teacup. "A letter arrived for you this morning, messere," she said, pausing to pet the purring cat perched on the back of Artie's chair, "from a Messere 'Kestrel', I believe."

Artemis looked up from the Gazette, not quite hiding the smile that sprang to his lips. "Thank you, Orana," he said, both Gazette and tea forgotten as he snatched up the letter, and Orana slipped out of the room as Artemis tore open the envelope, catching dried flowers in his palm. The flowers were a bit more difficult to read, dried as they were, but he recognised the wormwood leaves, "absence", and the red petals looked like they were from tulips. "Undying love". The sappy sack of shit. Artie missed him so much it hurt. At the bottom of the envelope were a few snowdrop petals, "consolation" or "hope", and Artie smiled softly, if sadly, before putting the flowers back and pulling out the letter.

Artemis wanted to say that the paper smelled like oranges, but maybe that was just the association he made with the familiar handwriting it opened into. He skimmed for the important bits first, indications that both Cormac and Anders were alive and well and that they'd made it down the river safely. Once he had those assurances, he could breathe for a little while, and Artie sat back to drink his tea and read the letter properly from top to bottom.

_Hello, my sweet!_

_I am ever so glad to be off the river, though better the river than the sea. No one builds right on the water, here, except the docks at Kassel, which stretch inland like strange fingers. Blondie says it's because the river rises that high and that far. There's not a building in sight of wood or stone -- all of them seem to be soft-edged mud and tile, and the chantry tower of Kassel is done in etched gold plates, telling the tales of Andraste, twelve storeys high. The doors are set with jewels. I've never seen anything like it._

_And just across the river, we've moved in with family, for now, but we'll be out as soon as possible, after the harvest. Everyone who can work is working on that, now. You remember how that always is. But, when it's over, we'll be able to hire a team to build a house for us. We're going to have a farm. Maybe an orchard. The family farms barley, you know, so maybe we'll do as they do._

_We'll let you know when we've got room for visitors. Oh! We can also take mail, now that we've stopped travelling. We've got a box in town under our names._

_We definitely look forward to seeing you again, some time. That last dalliance was far too short._

_Ever yours,_

_M. Kestrel._

"Do you see that, Assbiter?" Artie asked the cat still purring from the back of his chair. "Your daddies are safe, and now I can write to them and let them know just how much of an adorable terror you've been to my husband!" Assbiter replied by trying to chew on Artie's hair. "Come here, you." Artemis reached over his head to pull the cat into his arms, something Assbiter was less than thrilled with but indulged Artie in, with only the barest of whines. "Let's go find Orana. I need to order some flowers."

* * *

* * *

Seneschal Bran had done everything in his power to make sure the election process ran smoothly, or as smoothly as it could run, and that was something Artemis could appreciate as he counted the boxes and their corresponding lines. Six wasn't the worst number when it came to candidates, he supposed, but five would have been better. Five was a good number.

A mage joined him on the balcony. A Tranquil -- no, not a Tranquil. That girl. What was her name? "Which box is your brother's?" she asked.

Ella. That was it. "The one with his mug on it," Artie replied, gesturing at the line on the left. "Bit hard to see from here, but. The box behind that bald man, there."

Ella leaned to the side, trying to get a better look. The bald man slipped his piece of paper into the box and shuffled out of the way. "Oh! Oh. That is an... interesting portrait on the front of his box."

"More flattering than Lusine's," Artemis said. "Third from the left."

"Is there a rubbish bin for votes for me?" Bran asked, ducking past on his way to get a cup of tea. That was what this day needed. More tea. More tea, less dogs, and an open window somewhere in this blasted fortress. "Because that's where they're going to end up. I refuse to be considered. I will not be viscount. I have been the next best thing for many years, but that crown is not mine."

"Don't worry," Ella told him, looking over her shoulder. "They've got good instructions on not letting anyone vote for you. I think it's only been an issue with the nobles, though. Most of Lowtown's got their eyes on the boxes. And that pile next to the table for Varric. They're convinced the vote is some kind of binding magic, and if they want him, they'll get him."

Bran scoffed and shook his head. "Better him than me."

"You getting tea?" Ella asked. "Get me a cup while you're in there?"

"Oh yes! Tea sounds good," Artemis agreed.

Bran managed to look dreadfully put-upon for a moment before disappearing to get tea for the three of them.

Artemis watched someone else fall away from the lines to add a ballot to Varric's pile. "We should have just gotten Varric his own box and put up with his whining. Those ballots are going to spill onto the floor if this keeps up. Though that would bring the candidate count up to seven, and seven is an awkward number."

"A lucky number in dice games, though, which would favour your brother. Sounds like his sort of thing."

"Cards are more his thing," Artemis said distractedly as he counted the people in line. "And the number 'seven' isn't particularly useful there. Look at Guillaume's line. Full of poncy noblemen."

Ella bit her lip against a smirk.

"Don't give me that look," Artie said, eyes narrowed. "I know, I'm a poncy nobleman too. But they all look like they've just eaten a block of bad cheese."

"Is it just me, or does Lusine's line look terribly nervous?" Ella asked, after watching the scene below a bit longer. "That or it's very warm in here. They're all sweating and looking around, like they expect assassins to leap out from between the pillars, any second."

Bran returned with a tray of cups and a teapot, which he set on the thick balcony rail. "Who's expecting Crows?"

"Lusine's people. Just look at them!" Ella gestured.

Bran knew enough to expect tampering. He'd seen looks like that, at times like these, before. "She's probably blackmailing them," he pointed out. "Brothel mistress has everyone's secrets. That's just how that works out. Goodness knows, she's got mine, but so does my wife."

"You're married?" Ella asked. "Not that you're not handsome, but setting up, I heard talk about you and an elven prostitute!"

"Serendipity? Oh, she's wonderful. We like to go to parties, together. I get invitations, and she actually wants to go. I'll say her wit makes any event almost bearable." Bran smiled wryly and picked up a cup of tea. "My poor wife was never much for the general public, I'm afraid. She's very glad I've found someone else to go to those things."

Artemis blew on his tea to cool it. "Dips makes any party fun," he said, "and I've been to a few parties." Which he mostly spent rearranging the booze. That wine in front of that other wine, the cordial to the left, the rum in his stomach -- that sort of thing.

Merrill and Orana's lines ran next to each other, made up mostly of elves, and snatches of conversation drifted up to the balcony. Bickering, mostly.

"Looks like the elf vote is split between Orana and Merrill," Bran said. He paused to sip his tea, made a face, and took a moment to add more sugar. There would be a mountain of the stuff at the bottom of his cup, once he got to it. "I knew that would happen."

"That's too bad," Ella said. "I like Merrill. She's sweet. Always compliments my hair." She eyed Artemis. "Not that Orana isn't great too. She just scares me."

"I fear for my life whenever I see her holding a frying pan," Artie admitted. "Her cooking is worth it, though."

"Hey!" barked one of Guillaume's poncy nobles. He snapped his fingers at the nearest guard. Which turned out to be Donnic. "Guard! You! That elf there has voted twice!"

Donnic yawned and squinted at the elf and then at the nobleman. "That's a lot coming from you Lord Donovan, considering this is the fourth time I've caught you in line. One man, one vote. If you're so worried about the outcome, go have a few drinks, but if I catch you in here again, tonight, you'll be visiting the lockup downstairs."

"That! That is! I never!" Lord Donovan sputtered, hand leaping to his throat. "Do you all hear what this man is saying about me? Me! A man of noble birth and good standing!"

"It's good to see you standing, today, Lordship," a voice rang out from further down the line. "I was afraid it would be the middle of next week with all the drinking."

The crowd broke into laughter, snickers, first, and then great whooping gales from the Lowtown lines.

Lord Donovan turned tomato-red, and he was still sputtering his outrage after he shoved his ballot into Guillaume's box. The sputtering went until he'd left the building, at which point the Lowtown groups applauded.

"This is better than food and a show," Artie said cheerfully between sips of tea. "Poor Guillaume. His line just keeps getting shorter."

"It's tea and a show," Ella said, and Artie had to concede that.

Orana's line had taken to taunting the line of nobles, and soon a chant of 'go home, Guillaume' filled the room while the nobles looked uncomfortable.

"That's actually fairly classy as far as taunting rhymes go," Bran said, looking infinitely tired. "You should hear the things I've heard rhymed with 'Orlesian'."

Artemis tilted his head, brows knit in concentration. "That's... All I'm coming up with is 'artesian'."

"What's he really like, though?" Ella asked. "This Guillaume, I mean. Obviously, he's not very popular."

"He's very Orlesian," Bran said, tactfully. "For Chantry and country, you know. The man sent his own son to the Gallows without a second thought, I've heard. I wonder where that came in, though. The de Launcets aren't known for their mages, but maybe it's his wife's line. I don't know much about Dulci, but she didn't seem nearly as thrilled to let the boy go. I remember the flood of irate letters she sent, and Guillaume came to beg forgiveness for his wife's outburst. But, the fact remains, he _is_ Orlesian. Not just 'from Orlais' but 'holding an Orlesian noble title'. Voting for him would effectively be a bloodless Orlesian conquest."

"You think he'd turn the city over to the Empire?" Ella asked, with a hint of surprise. "But, he moved here _from_ the Empire. Wouldn't that defeat the purpose?"

"That depends entirely on why he came here. You know he was originally meant to be wed to Leandra Amell, and her father was in line to be viscount, before all that unpleasantness with the mages and the other mages and that scandal with cousin Damion and the smuggling ring." Bran shrugged expressively and sipped his tea. "If you ask me, he's been setting himself up for this for a long time. Or someone else has been setting him up for it."

"The only thing he's setting himself up for is an embarrassing failure," Artemis muttered into his teacup. He watched a few more voters break away and add their ballots to Varric's growing pile. "Varric's still not running!" he called down to them, but the voters barely spared him a glance. Artemis shook his head and set his teacup down on the railing. "If that pile gets any higher, it's going to make a mess. I need a box. Or a bucket. Something."

Still muttering to himself about messes and how seven was an awful number, Artemis headed downstairs. Minutes later, Ella spotted him scooping Varric's votes into a bucket, to the nearest guard's bemusement.

"Twitchy fellow, isn't he?" Bran said.

Ella shrugged. "That was my impression too."

Donnic sidled up next to Artemis and, with their heads bent close together, whispered something that had Artemis cracking a smile. More whispering, and then Artie gathered up a quill and parchment and slid them over to Donnic. A dwarfy cartoon took shape under Donnic's hand, and he set this in front of the bucket.

"I don't remember Varric's nose being quite that big," Ella said.

"It's only that big when he's got it in your business," Bran retorted, pouring himself another cup of tea.

Below them, the lines continued to pass, the boxes of ballots growing more and more full as day passed into evening. Finally, they stopped. Ten moments passed without another person running in to claim a ballot and drop it into a box.

"Who's counting these?" Donnic asked, peering into the bucket of Varric's votes.

"Someone who isn't me!" Bran called down. "Normally, we'd have the mages do it, because they have no stake, but I'm not sure how many mages are left in the city, and they very much have a stake, this time. I saw several in the lines, today. But, anyone we get is going to potentially cause a conflict. Everyone has a stake in this. So, what if we have them counted several times, by different people? The numbers should be almost the same. I can't imagine it being that close for any of them. We should be able to get an accurate enough count like that to judge."

"I'll count first," Ella volunteered. "Starkhaven's circle, Maker pity it and all of us, taught clerical and accounting magics. We're no good in a fight, but we can keep your army funded!"

"Accounting magic?" Artemis asked, blinking owlishly. "That exists? Of course it exists." That made him wish his magic were not so temperamental. "I... hm. I suppose I'll count as well. By hand. Probably three times."

"You should only need to count once," Bran said, "if we get a few people counting."

"Oh, I'll... I'll need to count more than once."

Bran exchanged a look with Ella, who shrugged.

Hours later found the ballots organised into neat piles, numbers scribbled out on scraps of parchment. All discrepancies in the counting had been ironed out, and they were left with the final numbers. Sitting in front of Varric's piles, Artemis couldn't believe the results, and he didn't quite manage to suppress a laugh.

"That's ..." Bran leaned over Artemis's shoulder. "You've each counted three times, and I have six numbers, and they're all the same. Are they that close?" He goggled at the piles. "I mean, it would be simple enough to vacate Varric's election, since he's not actually running, but that is exceptional. And I think there would be riots, if we didn't announce his results with all the others."

"The numbers are correct. We both agree, without having consulted," Ella said, idly rubbing at the scar on her forehead. "Anton Hawke wins by a single vote. Varric's, if I don't miss my guess."

"I would have thought he'd vote for Orana." Bran sounded a bit surprised.

"He ran the campaign for 'Lord Dog', as I understand it. There's been a lot of rather loud discussion in the Knight-Commander's office, these last weeks." Ella shrugged.

"One vote," Artemis said, setting down his parchment with a dazed smile. His little brother, the viscount. Their mother would have been bursting with pride. "Anton is lucky I voted for him. He'd better buy me a drink. Or something."

"I suspect Varric will," Bran said. "He was very insistent on not being viscount."

"Varric can save the money for his own drinks," Artie replied, neatening the corners of one pile. "I suspect he'll need them. And Maker help anyone in Lusine's path when she finds out."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A celebration of the election of the new Viscount of Kirkwall. Drunken meat jokes in abundance.

"We're throwing a party," Anton said, looking around at the carts of beer and food -- still cooking, in some cases.

"We are," Varric agreed, checking that the carter's ramps on the great stairs weren't missing any significant chunks. The steps had gotten hit with some stray chunks of Tevinter architecture, much like the rest of a certain sliver of Hightown, but the ramps looked secure -- they and the steps had been carved out of the stone of the cliff and were apparently made of much sterner stuff than the flying chunks of Chantry.

"Remind me how this is supposed to go?" Anton asked one more time, as the red-cloaked figures of a pair of elves bearing alarmingly expensive wine approached, giggling between themselves.

"We come down the stairs and head for the Market. The first party's there. We stop by the Hanged Man, before we head down to the Docks and make another stop down by the tavern and the chowder place. Then we hit the bridge and end up in the Gallows Courtyard and surprise your charming templar husband who just loves parties, especially ones that show up already drunk at his door. At work."

"I'm hoping he'll let the templars out in shifts to party with us. Let people get used to the idea that these aren't their enemies. Maybe introduce the new First Enchanter, if the mages have picked one, yet. I kind of liked the old guy with the funny hat. He seemed pretty sensible." Anton leaned to the side and snagged a skewer of meat from one of the carts, before he wrapped his free arm around one of the elves. "Giddy already, Dips? I haven't even gotten the crown, yet!"

"Of course not, Tony. Bran's still sulking over the ruffles on his doublet." Serendipity slipped a quick pinch under the firm curve of Anton's bottom, in his all-too-fitted trousers. "Better start on that skewer, before someone hungrier takes it out of your hand."

"Like you?" Anton asked around a mouthful of meat. "I think people are going to bring me so much meat and beer, you're going to have to roll me up to the podium, at the end."

"I'll leave that to the messeres from the Rose," Varric remarked, still eyeing the crowd a little suspiciously. "I'll just be here taking notes. Always thought it'd be your brother we'd have to roll up to his first public speaking appearance, but it's a good thing it's not him, because I will not be providing the buttercream for that."

Anton gave him a cringing laugh. "I did not need to picture my brother covered in buttercream, thank you. Any of my brothers."

"Not even Carver?" Serendipity asked, stretching for Anton's skewer before he held it out of reach.

"Especially Carver," Anton said around a bite of meat. He paused a moment to chew and hummed at the flavour, eyebrows arched at Varric in approval. 

He didn't quite manage to pull the skewer out of Varric's reach in time, and the dwarf tore off a piece of meat and ignored Anton's protests. Varric made an agreeing sound of approval around his stolen bite. "Not as interesting as the last party's sausage, but a decent reminder that our new viscount is a fan of meat."

"I will hit you with this when I'm done," Anton promised, brandishing the skewer.

"Such violence!" Varric protested, a hand over his chest. "I can see the Gazette headline now: 'On his Day of Victory, the New Viscount Hits his Campaign Manager with his Meatstick'. Is that really how you wish to start your political career?"

"I can think of worse ways," Serendipity said. She waved cheerfully at Aveline as she spotted her on the street, watching the procession and shaking her head in resignation.

Anton also spotted Aveline. "Where's Donnic?" he called out. "He should be out here celebrating with the rest of us!"

"My husband is doing his duty as a guardsman, and will not be joining your parade of meat and revelry, Anton." Aveline offered Anton a sour look. 

"None of your husband's meat available for our enjoyment, then?" Serendipity asked, helping herself to a sliver of Anton's meat from the skewer, as he was too busy looking at Aveline to notice. "Such a pity. Seems like he'd have the sort of meat a lady could really revel in."

"Which is why he has a wife," Aveline snapped, and then turned a brilliant red. She had not, in fact, meant to discuss this at all.

"Tell us the truth, Aveline," Anton encouraged, a teasing gleam in his eye. "You married him for his spectacular meat, didn't you? His spicy sausage should be a legend to keep Kirkwall a thousand years."

"I am not discussing Donnic's 'spicy sausage' with any of you!" Aveline huffed. "Take your meat-parade out of my sight, before I find a reason to start arresting you all!" She crossed her arms and glared, but the glare softened, after a moment. "And congratulations, Anton. Don't make us regret this."

Anton fell into a deep bow, almost hitting Varric in the face with the skewer. "Never fear, good Captain!" he said, walking backwards to keep addressing her as he left. "I will at least wait until I'm officially crowned to do anything regrettable!" He grinned and spun just in time to avoid her eye roll.

By then most of Hightown had taken to the streets to see what the fuss was about, and they cheered for him as he passed, whether they'd voted for him or not. He was a celebrity today, on display. Odd after so many years in the shadows, but he could get used to it.

By the time their procession had turned down the street to the Hanged Man, it had swelled in size, and Anton found himself using a pair of miners as a sedan chair. Sitting on their shoulders, he waved at the crowd, unsure who had handed him the mug of beer or set the flower crown on his head. He'd spotted Artie and Bethany somewhere in the crowd but damned if he could find them now.

To his left, another miner hoisted Varric on his shoulders, and the dwarf offered him a grin and a wave.

They came down through the Foundry District, if only because the stairs by the Alienage were too narrow, and the heat was oppressive, but the cheering kept on. As they rounded the last corner before heading down to the docks, they came upon a group of elves, just past the stairs.

Merrill stepped forward, smiling. "Congratulations, Anton! Are you happy? You should be happy."

Anton patted the shoulder of the miner on his left, and the two of them put him down. "Well, I won, didn't I?" He grinned and held his arms out, and Merrill leapt forward to hug him. "What about you? Is it okay that I won?"

Merrill laughed. "I didn't think I'd win! Orana and I just had to try. We wanted to see what it would be like. It's not the sort of thing elves are allowed to do in the city, you know."

"Well, I'm going to change what elves are allowed to do in this city!" Anton declared, turning to face the crowd, with an arm around Merrill's shoulders. "I'm going to make you the Bann of -- wait, you guys don't have banns. What's the equivalent of a Fereldan bann?"

After some mumbling in the crowd, someone called out, "Baroness?"

"Sure!" Anton clapped his free hand to his chest. "I'll make you the Baroness of the Kirkwall Alienage! The first elf to hold a title purely on her own merits and not by marrying my brother." He paused, squinting into the crowd. "Which was cheap, Fenris! You could've been a nobleman on your own merit! You've got it in you!"

"A nobleman in me?" came Fenris's unmistakable voice, cutting through the drunken cheers. "I'm afraid you're confusing me with your brother."

Anton followed the voice and spotted Fenris, standing just behind him, next to the aforementioned brother, who was wiping a hand over his face. "More than they needed to know, Fenris," Artemis said just loud enough for Anton to make out. Fenris looked more smug than chastised.

Merrill squealed as someone set a flower crown on her head too. "Oh, this is just too much!" she said, grinning from pointed ear to pointed ear.

"My parties are always too much," Anton replied, "and somehow, just enough, my dear Baroness!" Anton dipped into a bow, forgetting the flower crown on his head until it nearly tumbled for the ground. "Oops!" He caught it just in time.

"Please don't do that when you're wearing the actual crown," Artemis sighed, reaching up to straighten it before Anton swatted his hands away.

"Why not? Keep any petitioners on their toes. Or perhaps I could have a new crown made, one more fitted."

"Or we could just glue it to your skull," Fenris suggested, earning him a swat from his husband.

Anton considered that. "But, you'd ruin my hair," he finally settled on. "I'll tell you what. If I die in office, you can glue it to my skull and use my head for a paperweight. It'll keep my sister from doing anything too bizarre with it."

Fenris looked a bit ill, like he so often did when he considered Bethany for too long. It wasn't that he didn't like her -- in fact, he liked her quite a bit -- but every once in a while it slipped his mind how utterly terrifying she really was. And that was a lot coming from him, he thought.

"Oh! That would be very special, indeed!" Merrill smiled up at Anton. "Like a Chantry relic!"

"But, much less holy," Fenris pointed out. "Now, if it were _Sebastian's_ head..."

"Where has Sebastian been?" Merrill asked, as the party started forward again, trying to get the cart to turn onto the stairs to the Docks. "Did he go back to Starkhaven?"

"I don't know," Anton admitted, after a moment. "The last I saw, he was being carried off by that other Warden and a supposed Antivan Crow, but the Crow got on the boat with my brother, I'm told, so who knows what happened to the other two."

As Anton stepped up to help with one of the carts, he nearly bumped into his uncle, waiting for him at the top of the stairs.

"Your grandfather was supposed to be viscount," Gamlen pointed out, with no preface.

"That's me, Uncle. Righting the family history. Bringing in a new era for the Amells." Anton grinned, crouching down to replace the broken pin on one of the wheels. "It'll stop wobbling now, Colfax," he called up to the front.

Gamlen harrumphed but reached past Anton to grab his own skewer of meat. "That flower crown looks ridiculous," he said before stuffing his face with meat.

"Nice to see you too, uncle," Anton cheerfully replied.

"Oh, ignore him!" From around Gamlen appeared Charade, and she stepped to her tiptoes to give her cousin a crushing hug. "Congrats, Anton! I'm proud of you, and so's he. He'd say as much too, if he could manage to pull the stick out of his ass!"

"Hey!" Gamlen protested, the word garbled by meat.

"Oh dear," said Anton, wrapping an arm around Charade's waist to squeeze her back. "Doesn't he know the stick's supposed to go in his mouth? It's not that kind of party, uncle."

Gamlen's next words were garbled too, but no less rude for it.

Charade settled back on her heels, walking beside Anton as he followed the flow of the procession. "Now where is that darling husband of yours? He should be celebrating with you!"

"Working, of course. Which is why we're bringing the celebration to him!" Anton grinned and pressed a mug of beer into her hand that she didn't see him grab. "It isn't officially a Hawke party until I get him alone in a closet!"

"Does this mean I'm going to have to wander around the Gallows opening closets, until I find your darling husband stripped down to his underthings and just waiting for the right dashing thief to steal them?" Charade grinned and took a swig of the beer. "Or maybe I should just steal everything he's not wearing. And everything you're not wearing. Oh, that sounds like a good time. The Viscount and Knight-Commander of Kirkwall, running around pantsless, on a quest for vengeance."

"You are _evil_." Anton laughed. "It's good to know that runs in the family, at least, even if none of my siblings were blessed with our glamorous talents."

"Other than your sister," Charade noted, watching the carts descend. "She's got a good eye for it."

"She's terrifying for totally other reasons," Anton corrected, without explaining a thing.

"Your sister reminds me of my mother," Gamlen grumbled around another mouthful of meat.

"You see that? The whole family's come back around. It just skipped a generation in the middle." Anton smiled brightly and followed the carts down to the Docks.

* * *

Thrask had barricaded himself in his new office. He could hear the festivities before they were in sight, and from his window, the party had looked like a wild mob, brandishing food and drink like weapons and ready to pillage. Cosmetically, the Gallows was still recovering from the rebellion, and the last thing it needed was some rambunctious revellers ransacking the place. That said, _something_ smelled absolutely divine, and Thrask considered leaving his post to see what the fuss was about.

When it came, the sound of singing wasn't a surprise, but the sound of it getting closer to the window was. Just one voice, at least, but Thrask reached for his sword. A hand curled around the windowsill, and Thrask jumped up from his chair.

"It's a time honoured tradition!" sang a voice Thrask knew but couldn't place. "To get enough nutrition!" An arm followed the hand into view. "To stay alive until you die!" Next came a flower crown on a dark-haired head. "And that's the end of... you are not Cullen!"

"...Messere Hawke?"

"This... isn't this my husband's office?" Anton pulled him the rest of himself into the room and glanced around.

"Oh!" Thrask didn't quite understand, but he was pretty sure what had happened. "This is the _Knight-Captain's_ office. Ser Cullen is the _Knight-Commander_. He's across the hall, now, in Meredith's old office."

"Ah! Of course." Anton shook his head and chuckled, the light flush on his cheeks more from exertion and beer than embarrassment. "I'll just see myself out, then, Ser... I'm sorry, I should know your name. You were there when we rescued my brother from that blood mage, weren't you?"

"Thrask," Thrask filled in. "Knight-Captain Thrask. And I'm still sorry about your brother. That was a poor decision."

"Oh, don't worry about it. He's fine. If he wasn't, you wouldn't be standing here." Anton smiled brightly and opened the door. "Thank you for the directions, Captain Thrask. I hope my husband is more merciful to his captain than Meredith was."

Thrask's answering laugh was polite but a bit strained as Anton closed the door behind him.

"Oh, Knight-Commander!" Anton singsonged, knocking on Cullen's actual door before realising it was open. He poked his head in. "Kirkwall's viscount-elect has need of you! _Terrible_ need of you."

"I thought I heard your singing," Cullen said, fighting not to smile as his quill continued to move. "Have you finished partying for the night then? Come to start a new party with just the two of us?"

"Look out the window, love," Anton said, circling Cullen's desk and leaning his hip against its edge. "I've brought the party to you!"

"You..." Cullen squinted up at his husband and the crown on his head before glancing at the window. He couldn't see the crowd from here, but now that he was paying attention, he could hear it. "Anton, what did you do?"

"Meat and beer and revelry, Commander! I've brought them all down to the courtyard, so you and your men can come out and play, without leaving anything unguarded for too long!" Anton grinned proudly. "And, tomorrow, I get my crown and make speeches. You'll be there, won't you? With the First Enchanter, I hope. Do you have a First Enchanter, yet?"

"We're... working on that. So many mages left that half the suggestions are useless. They're all still trying to decide who's the best choice from who's stayed." Cullen smiled sadly, remembering the older mage who'd suggested Enchanter Thekla, not realising the man had been dead for years. "I'll bring some mages along, if they'd like to come. Probably your brother and Keran, as well, to keep an eye on things. The last thing we need is the crowd rioting."

"Well, we've got beer and meat enough for everyone! I'll make sure to suggest watering down any beer served to the mages or templars, so you don't end up with more idiocy than usual." Anton kneaded the few unarmoured parts of his husband. "Let them celebrate. And then, let _us_ celebrate."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merrill and Anton change what it means to be an elf in Kirkwall. Anton and Cullen introduce the new First Enchanter.

Merrill squeezed between stacks of stone blocks that hadn't been moved yet, and ducked between statue parts and scaffolding to get down the stairs to the Alienage. She looked much like she had, when she left, the day before, but now she wore a golden circlet with four pearls -- they were said to be pearls, but Merrill didn't think real pearls were that big -- at the front, and a string of pearls -- actual pearls -- wrapped around it. She also wore a new cloak, a tasteful tan leather on the outside, with what Anton said was the traditional green velvet on the inside.

"Hey, lady, you can't just--" Natia started, looking up from where she and Reeba were playing dice games under the Vhenadahl. "Oh, shit, Merrill? Is that you?"

Merrill waved and ducked her head, as she made her way over to the two of them. The construction of one of the new buildings continued in the background, with blocks being lifted with ropes and force magic to the second level.

"What kind of crazy shem thing are you wearing?" Reeba laughed, getting up to walk around Merrill and get a closer look. "You look like the viscount's mistress!"

"I'm a baroness, now, Hahren." Merrill smiled, shyly. "Baroness Merrill of the Kirkwall Alienage."

"Well, well," Natia said, grinning up at her. "Look at you, with your fancy new title."

Reeba's eyes were wide, astonished. "Baroness?" she said. "An elf? I'd heard the new viscount had promised as much, but I was certain that had been the drink talking!"

Merrill ducked her head bashfully, hiding her smile, and rubbed the velvet cloak between her fingers. "No, no," she said. "Anton always keeps his word. Well. The important words, anyway. And he knew this was important."

Reeba touched the edge of Merrill's cloak, feeling the fine fabric and craftsmanship. "Are you leaving us, then, lethallan?" she asked. "Off to Hightown, with the rest of the nobles?"

Merrill had been staying there the past few days, or so Reeba had heard. Perhaps she'd already made the arrangements.

"Oh, Hahren, no," Merrill said, shaking her head, "that's not what this means. All of it. Any of it." She took the coronet off her head, moving it gingerly between her hands as though afraid to drop it. Which she was. "What it means is that we have a voice now, in the government. Only my voice, but it's better than nothing and... and it's a start. Why would I leave the people I'm supposed to be speaking for? That wouldn't really make any sense, would it?"

"Isn't that what nobles do?" Reeba asked. "They move up into Hightown and away from the people they came from. They get servants and ignore them. They waste food in front of the hungry."

"Not the Hawkes," Merrill said strongly. "Not the Hawkes, and not me. You've spoken to Bodhan and Orana, haven't you? You know how the Hawkes care for their people, and I will not be so different, but instead of looking after my servants, I'm going to look after my friends. Anton says I can ask for official help -- workers and money -- for the alienage, so we can get things done."

"We're getting things done now!" Reeba gestured to the foundations on one side of the alienage.

"People are volunteering to help us," Merrill pointed out. "But, if we get money from the city, we can pay them. We can help even more people, if we have money."

"She's got a point," Natia said, after a moment. "There's a lot folks will do for free, but we need money for supplies, if nothing else. And if the treasury wants to pay for the work, there's no reason to stop them."

"And that's important for our future, if we want to maintain what we build," Merrill added. She took Reeba's hand in hers and squeezed it. "And we're going to build something great here. Not just the buildings. Though they are looking pretty wonderful, Natia, from what I can see."

"The trees were a challenge," Natia admitted. "But I told you. You can't beat dwarf architecture!"

Reeba's smile was soft but bittersweet, the smile of the wary, who had reason to be wary. "You are right, of course," she said. "Have you celebrated? I would say this calls for a drink and a toast! I know Natia is hiding some brandy she doesn't want me to know about..."

"I-- what? Am not!" But Natia looked more worried than affronted.

"Oh! ... Well, if there's no brandy," Merrill appeared to have missed the fact that there was something more going on with Natia, "I have some anisette! It's from Antiva. Isabela gave me a bottle, and it's very good." She smiled brightly and Natia and Reeba studied each other.

"Anisette?" Reeba asked, with a polite, if stiff, smile.

"You know, maybe there's some brandy around here, after all," Natia said, looking a bit pained. "Somebody has to have some."

* * *

* * *

The crowd gathered in the Keep's plaza was getting larger with every passing moment. The viscount had some decree to bestow upon them, and everyone was interested to hear what the man would do now. So far, he'd pissed off half of Hightown with his support of the Alienage reconstruction project, and while a lot of Lowtown saw that as something of a betrayal, those who lived closest to the stairs talked about how bad it had really gotten in there. So, this would be something worth hearing. 

Anton stepped out, standing above the crowd below, and held out his hands for silence. "You all know that I handle the politics of Kirkwall -- our interactions with other cities and nations. But, it falls to others to handle some more specific native concerns, like our mages."

The crowd shifted uncomfortably, and murmurs started. What was he doing? Would he revoke the law of free mages?

"You already know one of those people, my extremely handsome husband, Knight-Commander Cullen. But, today, we bring you the other one. They call him... Tim. Please welcome First Enchanter Tim of the Kirkwall Circle!" Anton gestured to one side, and Cullen stepped out to join him, leading an older man with a long beard and a horned hat. "I'm told that this decision required many weeks of deliberation, as our former First Enchanter did not leave instruction on who was meant to take his place. But, the mages have made their decision, and First Enchanter Tim will represent their interests."

"Their interests are not so different to your own," Cullen pointed out. "From what I understand, most mages want homes, families, and jobs in the community, and my partner, Tim, is here to ensure that goes smoothly and that these mages get a good, solid magical education, as well, so they can protect themselves and others from demonic influence."

Applause followed, but it was hesitant, wary. The people of Kirkwall didn't know this Tim or what to expect from him. Tim, on the other hand, bowed deeply, either unconcerned or unaware of the suspicion. "I thank you for this honour, Knight-Commander, Viscount, people of Kirkwall," he said solemnly. He leaned on his staff as though it were as much a walking aid as a conduit for his magic. "I can't remember the last time I was in this part of Kirkwall, and it is good to see the faces of my neighbours. Because that is what we are now, isn't it? Neighbours." His smile was missing a tooth, but it was no less broad because of it. "And it is my job to make sure that we are good neighbours. Good neighbours who give back to their community."

His knobby hands twisted around his staff's grip. Around him, the crowd was still quiet -- still withholding judgement, Anton suspected.

Somewhere in the crowd, someone started coughing, and the crowd shifted, moving away from them. Tim seized the opportunity. "The magical community can offer some assistance with that," he said, pointing toward the gap in the crowd. "Though our healers are few, at present, I do want to make it possible for all of Kirkwall to get to a healer easily. We haven't much, now, in that regard, but I understand that one of the healers who recently left us left behind a large library and a well-stocked clinic, and I hope to get that going again, soon. No more hiding in the shadows just to get well!"

That got the attention of the crowd, and this time, the applause was much louder. That was something the people could get behind.

"I see that some of you have come to more permanent harm, as well, and sadly, that is something I have not known magic to solve -- a hand is too much for man to craft, even with the Maker's gift. But, there is magic that may help you do the things you need and want to do, and if you'll come to the clinic and let us know what you're having trouble with, we'll see what we can do for you. I understand we've had excellent luck with foot massage runes, in the tower, which may not sound like much, unless you're standing all day. I see some guards down there nodding." Tim smiled again, reaching out to pat Cullen's shoulder, amiably. "I want to offer the comfort magic can bring to all my neighbours, here in Kirkwall. And I want to offer a magical education to any of you who have been hiding your talents, because you've been too afraid to let anyone know. Come to my office. Step forward and share the Maker's gift to you with your friends and family. It is not something anyone should bear alone, and it is not something to be feared and locked away. Magic must not rule over man -- that is what the Chant tells us -- but it also tells us that magic is meant to serve man, and it does no great service, if we do not use it to help our neighbours."

"That rune," called out a man towards the back of the crowd, "can it massage something other than my feet?" He nudged the man next to him, and that part of the crowd erupted into raucous laughter. Cullen glared at them as though he could silence them with a look alone.

"With the right adjustments, of course!" Tim said, either ignoring or oblivious to what the man actually meant. "Have a bad back? There's a rune for that! Also a heating rune and cold rune to ease any sore muscles or general aches and pains you have but don't need or want to see a healer for. How about a rune for your pots and pans? Imagine it! Hot stew, without making a fire or lighting a stove! An ice cold drink, in the summer heat!"

"He sounds like a vendor in the market," one woman called into the crowd, to scattered laughter. "Like that potion lady, whatsername. 'Bad back? There's a potion for that! Want your hair to grow? There's a potion for that! Want to poison your no-good, cheating husband? There's a potion for that!'"

"Except magic _can_ do all those things!" Tim cheerfully replied.

"Uh, not to imply that any mages will be doing that last one," Cullen hastened to add. "And... serah, you _are_ speaking rhetorically, I hope?" He was not reassured by the woman's smirk.

"She's been threatening to poison her husband for years," Donnic called from the side of the crowd. "Where are you, Martin?"

"I'm not dead yet!" a man called from elsewhere in the crowd. "I feel fine!"

Around him, his friends laughed, elbowing him and each other. "Don't worry about old Marty! We've got him!"

"All of you, one of these days," the woman shouted, shaking her fist over her shoulder.

"But, it's all true," Tim said, enthusiastically. "There's not much magic can do that's _new_ , but anything you can do with your hands, you can do faster or easier with magic. It's not something to replace hard work, but it can make that work a lot less hard, so you've got time to do other things. And this nice young man, here," he said, patting Cullen's arm again, "has decided that it's time for us to stop keeping the benefits to ourselves. So, let's have a talk, Kirkwall! What would help you? Fresh water? Non-slip shoes? Self-warming kettles?" He hiked up his robes a bit and sat on the edge of steps, carefully lowering himself to the ground. "Come tell us what you need! You've got a mage, a templar, and the Viscount of Kirkwall, here. Surely one of us can help!"

Anton looked a little less than enthused by this sudden turn of events, and he shot a panicked glance at Cullen, who just shrugged. "Donnic! Can you keep this orderly?"

"Shit, shit, shit!" Donnic pulled himself up onto the foot of a column, and started gesturing to the other guards. "If you'd like to talk to the First Enchanter, form a line! If you'd just like to listen to the conversation, please step to the sides!"


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Letters from Starkhaven. A Nevarran visitor.

No matter how much time she spent in the library, Bethany still half expected to run into Cormac, a book open on his knee or across his desk, and she spared a sad smile for the thought before pushing it aside. Artie, at least, had been by recently, judging from the state of her larger books, and she would have to have a word -- another word -- with him about her organisational system and why it was not to be disturbed. For now, however, Bethany focused on her mail, sifting through envelopes on her way to her desk. She really had let the pile build up for too long, hadn't she?

A letter from Starkhaven. No, _two_ letters from Starkhaven, addressed by two different hands. She recognised one all too well, but the second's mystery intrigued her. She set it down for the moment and instead tore into Sebastian's.

More of the same, and really, that shouldn't be a surprise. The man was pig-headedly stubborn when it came to his vengeance, and the fool was still set on marching his army into Kirkwall. "I'm still not going to Starkhaven like this, pumpkin," she sighed at the letter.

The second letter, though, caught her eye again, and she set Sebastian's headache-inducing missive aside, for the moment, to open it. 'Don't tell him I'm writing, or he'll murder us both,' it began, and she glanced down at the signature -- N. Howe. Of course, that Warden friend of Anders's had gone back, with Sebastian, to convince him that invading Kirkwall was a poor start to his reign. Apparently, they'd known each other at some point in the past, and Messere Howe was counting on that to give him some influence in the present.

The rest of the text brought home that Nathaniel was as little impressed with Sebastian's current intentions as she was, with references to 'flinging holy shit at anything that moves' and 'nearly pounding his chest and bellowing before the Grand Cleric, like the apes of Par Vollen'. He ventured that he had no idea why a woman of such skill and beauty would have agreed to wed this 'vapid beast' who seemed 'not to have aged a day since I last saw him at the age of twelve'. The margins were filled with unflattering doodles of what was presumably Sebastian, to judge by the crown on the stick figures, and Bethany couldn't help but laugh. Really, the two of them sounded just like Cormac and Carver, albeit with far more on the line than ever went on between her brothers.

"Lady Amell?" Bodhan called from the doorway, and Bethany looked up at him over Nathaniel's letter.

"Yes, Bodhan?"

"I, ah, I'm sorry to interrupt your correspondence, my lady, but you have a visitor. Or Messere Anton does. I'm a little unsure on that point, but you, at least, are in the building."

"A visitor?" Bethany's eyebrow twitched up, and for a moment, with their letters in her hands, she thought of Sebastian and Nathaniel, and wondered which of them might follow their letters back to Kirkwall. "Well, bring them in, then. I will entertain in here today, I think." She neatened the edges of her papers as she spoke and wondered when she'd picked up that habit from Artie.

When Bodhan returned, it was with an armoured woman at his heels. She was striking, with short hair and a strong jaw, while her chest-plate bore the insignia of a single staring eye. How curious. Bethany didn't recall ever seeing her around Kirkwall.

"You are Lady Amell?" the stranger asked before Bodhan could introduce her, her accent softening the consonants. Her attention was divided between Bethany and the room itself as she looked around.

"I am," Bethany said.

"But you are a Hawke?"

A smile twitched at Bethany's lips. "I am."

The woman shook her head, her sigh exasperated. "Your family confuses me."

"It confuses me too," Bethany said, rising out of her desk chair and smoothing out her skirts, her smile coolly polite. "May I ask _your_ name? Your accent sounds Nevarran."

"I am Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast. Yes, _those_ Pentaghasts. No, I'm not with the family any longer. Are you familiar with the Seekers of Truth?" The woman held out a hand and Bethany shook it far more firmly than expected.

"Oh, is this about the trouble with the templars? It's so good of the Divine to get back to us after so long, but I'm afraid it's a little late. The former Knight-Commander went lyrium-mad and launched an assault on the city, for fear of blood mages in every dark alley. It was terrible. But, I'm not the one you want to talk to about _that_." Bethany's eyes danced with amusement, as she called to Bodhan. "Bring Seeker Pentaghast some tea, Bodhan, and some of those nut pastries. And the spinach ones, too. Those are good." She paused. "Sit and take tea with me, Seeker. I'll arrange for you to meet with my brother and his husband."

"I already met your brother and his husband. He looks just like you, are you twins?" Cassandra asked, with a confused glance around the room she found herself in. The shelves wrapped all the way around and up to the second level, every one of them stacked and double-stacked with books and dotted with what she vaguely recognised as tomb sculpture.

"That would be the wrong brother, then, if he looked like me. You've met Artemis. Artie does a lot of work with the Alienage. He's very much interested in elven culture." There was a smile, here, that Cassandra thought should mean something, and she couldn't make out what it was. " You want to see Anton. He's the Viscount of Kirkwall. The new Knight-Commander, Ser Cullen, is his husband."

"I was sent here to see Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall," Cassandra finally got out.

"Then you definitely want Anton. Sit, sit." Bethany fluttered a hand at the couch, and then rubbed at an ink stain on the side of one finger with a cloth from the corner of her desk. "We'll have some tea, and I'll send a runner up to the Keep, to arrange it. They'll be so happy to see you. They haven't seen anyone since Sister Nightingale was here. I liked her."

"Ah. Yes, I'd heard Sister Nightingale had paid Kirkwall a visit recently," Cassandra said, eyes wide but shoulders set in a way that said she was trying to not look as confused as she felt. She sat stiffly on the edge of the couch, leather armour creaking as she moved. "And... I'm sorry, but that statue, there..." She pointed over Bethany's shoulder, at a small sculpture on the shelf, a sculpture that was missing one arm and part of its nose but was otherwise well-preserved.

"Ah!" Bethany said, brightening as she glanced at the piece mentioned. "Nevarran like you, of course. I am a scholar of Nevarran tombs, and I bought that off a trader last year. He had no idea of its worth, and someone may have falsely suggested that it wasn't authentic." Her smile was impish.

"I suppose that explains a few things," Cassandra mumbled, relieved when Bodhan returned with tea.

"Have you been to the Grand Necropolis?" Bethany asked, inching closer as she reached for her tea. "I would so love to see it one day."

"Er..."

* * *

When Anton strolled into the library a half hour later, he found Bethany grilling some poor stranger on Nevarran architecture, and said stranger answered each question with either a grunt or one syllable.

"Do you have a new friend, darling sister?" Anton asked with a winsome smile, though he knew Bethany's scholar 'friends' didn't dress like that. "And I don't suppose there's any tea left?"

"Of course there is, but you'll want to call Bodhan to bring it, if you don't want to drink it cold. And some more of those spinach pastries. Those are very good, today, not that I'm surprised. Tyrone's new cook is learning so quickly!" Bethany smiled and held a little plate out to her brother. "Call for tea and come sit. This is Seeker Pentaghast, and she's come to ask some questions of you. And she won't tell _me_ , but I think it's about the thing with Meredith. Or maybe the thing with Alrik. Or that other fool Sister Petrice used to start a war with the Qunari."

"Mother Petrice," Anton corrected, with a sigh, coming back from the door and pulling over another chair. "Kirkwall has long been ill, and the people see only the symptoms, but not the cause. My administration means to correct that failing. Did you know the templars had been ruling the city since _Threnhold's_ fall? Everyone thinks it was since the Qunari killed Dumar, but Dumar was placed by the Knight-Commander. Terrible thing. Blackmail and threats. The city hasn't been safe for twenty years." He shook his head and took a bite of the pastry he'd been handed.

"And you are married to the new Knight-Commander, are you not? How is this different?" Cassandra asked, somewhat surprised that the Viscount would speak so freely.

"He didn't appoint me. The people of Kirkwall did." Anton shrugged, stealing Bethany's cup to wash the sticky cheese and spinach down. "I don't mean the nobles, either. First time for everything -- we asked everyone in the city who they wanted to lead, and I really wasn't expecting it to be me. Almost wasn't. They almost picked Varric."

"Varric Tethras? The _dwarf_?" Cassandra looked entirely confused at the idea.

Still chewing, Anton nodded. "And he'd tell you just how relieved he was that he lost. One point. Can you believe that? _One point_." He shook his head at Bethany. "Is it the chest hair? Did I lose the chest hair vote?"

Bethany patted his hand consolingly.

"So... just to be clear," Cassandra said. She'd set down her tea a while ago. "You are the Champion of Kirkwall? The one who defeated the Arishok in single combat?"

"I..." An exchange of looks between siblings. "Hm. I am the Champion, yes. Is that how Varric has been telling the story? Single combat?"

"I cannot speak to your Varric," Cassandra said, "but that is the rumour, or so I've heard. Is that not true then? I'd thought that might be a romantic embellishment."

"I'm not sure about romantic," Bethany replied. "I suspect that would have involved quite a bit more ducking behind pillars and running in circles."

Anton made a sound of protest around his pastry. "I had help," he told Cassandra. "But in the end, I was the only one the Arishok would deal with, and I was the one who slit the Arishok's throat."

"I see," Cassandra said. She looked at him like she was taking his measure.

"Yes, but I still don't. Why are you here?" Anton leaned forward to snag another pastry. "You're right, these are good, today."

Bethany rose to take the tea from Bodhan, and to leave him with further instructions, should things get more interesting than anticipated.

"Tell me your story, Champion. How is it that a Fereldan refugee becomes the most important man in Kirkwall?" Cassandra asked, accepting another cup of tea.

"That is not the answer to my question," Anton pointed out. "And for most of that, I direct people to Varric's novel, 'The Tale of the Champion', which is true enough in most parts."

"A dragon? Your brother was punched in the face by an ogre and lived?" Cassandra scoffed, sipping her tea. "It is a ridiculous tale."

"And yet, most of it is true." Anton shrugged. "Particularly the part about my brother getting punched by an ogre. I definitely expected him to die, but he survived to do greater and stupider things than that, like feeding his arm to a dragon, and then not bringing it home with him. It's really a good thing he spent so much time with that healer."

"A ... dragon. Your brother has only one arm now? I've met your brother. He has both arms. Unless you're telling me you have another brother...?" Cassandra counted on her fingers as she spoke.

"My brother has both his arms, or at least he did the last time I saw him. He's still an idiot," came a voice from the doorway.

Bodhan cleared his throat. "Knight-Commander Cullen has arrived, Messere Bethany, and Ser Carver."

"So I see," Bethany said, gesturing for the pair of templars to come in and join them. "Bodhan is brewing another pot, and there are still a few pastries left. Best get to them before Anton does."

Anton threw her an offended look over the pastry he was already biting into. 

"And to answer your question, Seeker Pentaghast, yes, we have one other brother." 

"Unfortunately," Carver muttered, reaching around Anton to snatch up a spinach pastry.

"Five Hawke children in all," Cullen said with an amiable if apologetic smile. "It can be a bit difficult to keep track at first. I'm Knight-Commander Cullen, by the way. Knight-Captain, up until recently. Did I hear Bethany call you a Seeker?" Cullen eyed the insignia on her chest, an insignia with which he was only distantly familiar, before it occurred to him that staring at a woman's chest was not generally a good idea.

"Cassandra Pentaghast," she said, rising to shake his hand. "I understand you are married to the Viscount?" She tipped her head in Anton's direction. "Just to be sure. It is, as you say, difficult to keep track. I have spent all morning trying to find the correct Hawke. Your other brother was very hospitable, but I was afraid he would try to rearrange the contents of my pockets, the way he carried on."

"Certainly not your pockets," Bethany protested, pouring tea for Cullen and Carver. "You're not related to us and you're not an elf. I doubt he'd be willing to get that close to your pockets."

Carver choked on the pastry, turning his back until he managed to unstick the layer of light, flaky crust from the back of his throat.

"Yes, I'm married to the Viscount. At the time, I had no idea he'd be Viscount of Kirkwall. Sort of snuck up on us both." Cullen smiled awkwardly and accepted a cup from Bethany. "If you're looking for the _correct_ Hawke, as in the one most likely to be right, that's probably Bethany, though."

"Flatterer," Bethany accused, offering up a nut pastry.

"No, that's your brother." Cullen gestured at Anton, as he suddenly found his hands full. "Now, what is this about? Bethany said it might be related to the complaints we sent to the Divine, but Kirkwall has been through some changes, since then. We didn't hear anything back, and then things were... quite serious, for a bit. Things are greatly improved, now. I'm afraid we are currently lacking a Grand Cleric, though."

"What happened to Grand Cleric Elthina? I have heard many stories among the people, and none of them seem right." Cassandra credited herself with at least some tact, some of the time.

"It was terrible, Seeker." Bethany raised her cup to her lips again. "I was there with her. The Chantry was on unstable ground -- the dwarves had been trying to reinforce it, since the ground started shaking, but ... Word came that it might fall, and I went with Brother Sebastian to evacuate the building, but she refused to leave. We had to get everyone else out, but she argued with us that if the Chantry fell, it was the Maker's will -- never mind that there was a shrine to Urthemiel right under the building!"

"I was there for that part. Anton and I were both there," Cullen noted, tongue all gummy from the honey in the pastry. "That is to say, when the ground shook, the assumption was dragons -- there were some in the mountains, nearby, and everyone was concerned. The Knight-Commander, ah, that is, Meredith, sent me along in case of demons -- there's still Tevinter ruins and demons under the city in some places. So, we went to make sure it wasn't demons or dragons, and we found a ..." He thought of the room full of sexual ornaments. "... shrine, as Bethany says. The only dragons were carved in stone."

"I still wish we'd put that in the yard," Anton grumbled.

"You'd never have gotten it through the door of the chamber!" Cullen protested.

"Then clearly that door was asking to be widened," Anton replied. "Seems a simple enough solution to me."

From the weight of Cullen's sigh, Cassandra assumed they'd had this argument before. Likely more than once. "And... that is what happened to the Chantry? An earthquake?" 

Cassandra spoke carefully, tone neutral, but Bethany could tell from the narrowing of her eyes that she didn't buy that. Bethany shrugged one shoulder. "The ground shook, and the Chantry fell." She offered Cassandra the last nut pastry, which she declined. Carver scarfed it up instead, shoving the whole thing into his mouth, to Bethany's disgust.

"I've heard wild tales about the sky changing colour," Cassandra said, "with debris from the Chantry landing blocks away. I have not heard of such an earthquake that could do this... and you think this was related to the shrine beneath it? I should like to have seen it, I'm sure. Were there many killed?"

"We evacuated the Chantry of all but Elthina," Bethany answered, resting her cup in her lap. "I had to carry my fiancé over my shoulder to get him out of there." She still used the term, fiancé, when it suited her. In honesty, she could not be sure how that would end, but perhaps Nathaniel could knock some sense into the fool.

"There's no way to know exactly what happened," Cullen said and meant it. He knew Anders had taken credit, but he had no idea what Anders had actually done, other than make sure no one was inside when the building came down. "We were all at the Gallows, at the time, and everyone had been cleared out already on a tip. There was no one near that building when it came down -- certainly no one near enough to speak to how it happened. Most of it kind of fell in, though, not out. Like maybe it fell through a hole in the floor. The quakes afterward were bad, though."

"That shrine opened out onto Darktown, eventually," Anton filled in. "I was down there, and the wind was incredible. The ground shook under me, and that meant the ground over me took it even worse. The Alienage took the worst of it, but no one's reported any deaths from burst windows or split walls. We're rebuilding, down there. The rest of Lowtown's next, if the nobles don't hang me for blowing the treasury on restoring the city, before that. It's bad, but it's _been_ bad. The Chantry collapse just made the problems more obvious."

"And what problems are those?" Cassandra asked, as patiently as she could manage.

"Well, let me start with the root of the problems," Bethany began, holding up a hand to Anton. "Brother Sebastian discovered corruption inside the Chantry. Money that was intended to be used to feed the poor and care for the refugees was being siphoned off and fed into the Templar Order."

"And we have no idea where that money went," Cullen pointed out. "I can't trace it to new equipment or lyrium shipments -- everything's covered by the money the Chantry's supposed to be sending us. Someone had another project going on, and it was very, very expensive."

"The effect, of course, is that the chantry failed the people of this city. There has been no charitable outreach since the Fereldan refugees arrived. It's as if someone was trying to make the point that the Fereldans were in some way responsible for the end of the Chantry's charity -- that they'd taken everything already. Of course, the refugees weren't receiving any assistance, either -- I can speak to that." Bethany shrugged expressively. "But, given that a Chantry Mother tried to start a war with the Qunari -- a task she eventually succeeded in -- I hesitate to speculate what other political motivations may have been below the surface, there."

Cassandra's eyebrows arched higher the longer Bethany spoke. "A Chantry Mother tried to start a war with the Qunari?"

"More than tried," Carver grumbled. "Fucking Petrice..."

"Indeed," Anton added. "That is how I ended up in single-combat-that-wasn't-single-combat with the Arishok. She was trying to start some sort of holy war and ended up with an arrow in her chest for the effort. Better than she deserved, really. But that, you see, is the point we're trying to make. Mother Petrice was symptomatic of the Chantry's problems. Of Kirkwall's problems, which are, in case you haven't noticed, our chief export."

"I've noticed," Cassandra assured them. "Sister Nightingale has told me as much, and it seems that things here have only become more eventful in the intervening months. I thank you for sharing your account of events." She set down her teacup and nodded to herself as though coming to a conclusion. "I think I have found what I was looking for," she said, and Anton wondered why she was looking directly at him as she spoke. "Champion -- Viscount -- would you mind speaking with me more at length at another time? The Chantry has some specific... concerns that I should like to discuss with you."

"Concerns," Anton said. That only sounded a little ominous. "Of course. I'd much rather the Chantry had cause to be unconcerned, but such is life."


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A strange disappearance. Fenris is appreciated by the cats.

The child tugged on the woman's sleeve and made a few quick hand signs, as they lingered in the alley, observing their prize.

"I know," the woman reassured the child, in hushed voice. "The guard will circle back in an hour. But, just look at it! Don't you think he'll be pleased with us?"

The child nodded and tugged her sleeve again, and the two of them picked up the runed bucket with its tightly fastened lid. Heavy, but necessary -- they had to cover all of it, to be safe. Within moments, molten lead dribbled down over the thing, spreading across the red smears on the gleaming ground, below. The woman tossed a rune into the spreading puddle and watched the metal suddenly stiffen in the shape of what they'd come for.

She whistled, and a low grinding sound preceded heavy footsteps. They had plenty of time to get back, and the master would indubitably be pleased with this latest acquisition. The woman wondered if the day would leave her time to pick up those Orlesian brass buttons she needed for the week's work, but the master's work always came first.

* * *

* * *

Fenris had the newest chapter of Hard in Hightown open across his lap, and he had every intention of reading it, an intention currently thwarted by the purring sack of fluff sitting on the pages.

"Cat," he said, trying to wriggle the book out from under Purrcy. "Books are not for sitting on."

But Purrcy scrinched his eyes up at Fenris in a way that, Anders had once told him, meant the beast was happy, and the cat stretched out, sprawling even more obscenely across the open book and exposing his belly. With an aggrieved sigh, Fenris rubbed the white fluff at his belly and felt the cat's chest hum under his fingers.

"There. You have been petted." Fenris finally slid the book out from under Purrcy and set it on top of him instead. Cats, it turned out, made better book rests than bookmarks.

Purrcy sat for all of a moment or three, before he shoved his way out from under the book and clambered onto the chair, next to Fenris, who edged to the side, to make room. These chairs were much too big, anyway. Qunari-sized, he thought. Two of Anders would fit in this chair, so there was definitely room for himself and this cat. But, the cat had other ideas, it turned out, and Purrcy hooked his talons into the sleeve of Fenris's shirt, for a moment, sizing up the distance before he leapt onto Fenris's shoulder. A brief fluster followed, in which the book was knocked onto the floor, and Fenris wound up with a cat firmly curled up on his head, claws caught in his hair.

It was about the time Fenris rang for Orana that Purrcy began to knead.

"Yes, Messere Fenris?" Orana appeared in the doorway, struggling to keep the amusement and confusion off her face at the sight of this fluffy ball of orange and cream tugging at Fenris's hair and licking his ear.

"Ham, if you please. Or pheasant. Something more interesting than my ears," Fenris grumbled, trying to figure out how to reach the book without the cat sliding down his face, claws out.

Orana took pity, crossing the room to extract the cat from Fenris's hair. "You're a pretty kitty, aren't you, Ser Purrcival. Let's go get you something tasty to eat, so Messere Fenris can read his book."

Purrcy looked up at her with an inquisitive chirp as Orana scooped him up, carefully disentangling kitty claws from Fenris's hair. As soon as she had him, Purrcy wriggled out of Orana's grip and climbed up her sleeve to perch on her shoulder, purring all the while. Anything but surprised, Orana balanced accordingly and cooed to Purrcy as she brought him into the kitchen.

"Who's the cutest kitty? You're the cutest kitty! Yes, you are!"

Purrcy chirped and purred his agreement with this assessment.

Fenris shook his head and picked up his book again. At least it hadn't been Assbiter, who, he had discovered, also went by the names Toebiter and Earbiter and... Anybodypartbiter. Judging by the startled swearing Fenris had heard a few minutes ago, that particular beast was probably helping Artemis with his cleaning.

Trying to find his spot on the page again, Fenris ignored how cold his lap felt now.

* * *

* * *

Cullen looked up at the knock on his open door, only to find one of the mages standing there. "What can I do for you, Alain?"

"I... I think you need to see this, Ser Cullen. You're not going to believe me if I just tell you." Alain looked rather disturbed by whatever it was, but he didn't seem panicked.

"Is anyone bleeding?" Cullen asked, standing up and reaching for his sword. "What am I walking into?"

"No, ser, no one's bleeding. It's... nothing." Alain paused, then nodded. "You're walking into nothing, and that's the problem."

And then Cullen looked confused. "Nothing?" he asked, following Alain down the hall to one of the narrow windows that overlooked the courtyard.

"Nothing, ser," Alain said, gesturing at the window.

Cullen looked down at the bronze-lined stone of the courtyard, which was, it seemed, all visible. "Where in the Void has she gone?" He blinked, blinked again, but the statue that had been Meredith was gone.

"We're not sure, ser, and that's the problem. We don't know who took her or how." Alain shrugged, looking down into the courtyard. "Our rooms haven't got windows, you know. None of us can see what goes on at night."

And it had to have been at night. There was no other way that would have gone unnoticed.

Cullen realised his mouth was still open and promptly shut it. Now that his brain had processed where she was _not_ , questions involving who and why vied for his attention. Who _could_ have moved her? Cullen hadn't been foolish enough to touch her -- none of his templars had been, as far as he knew -- but petrified lyrium was not so easily carried off.

"Did anyone hear anything?" Cullen asked Alain. "Strange noises? Voices?"

Alain shook his head, eyes wide. "No windows, ser," he reminded Cullen. And that, Cullen supposed, was another headache he'd need to address. For all that the Gallows were no longer a prison, it was still built like one.

"She can't have just disappeared," Cullen muttered, stepping away from the window to head down to the courtyard itself. For a frightening moment, he pictured Meredith returning to life and walking away of her own power, and just the thought had him clutching the wall.

"I expect she's been stolen, all the same, ser, and that means someone out there's touched her," Alain pointed out, getting right to another of Cullen's fears.

"We should've moved her, shouldn't we? We should've at least put a cage down or something." Cullen shook his head, as he threw open the door to the stairs. "Do we have anyone with spells that might help? I'm still getting used to all the talents around here. And sharp eyes. If someone was here, maybe they left something."

This city. Every time he thought he had Kirkwall figured out, something else happened. Demons, dragons, crazed apostate revolutionaries bent on getting him promoted, a Dalish baroness, a First Enchanter who put on puppet shows in the Viscount's garden. _Kirkwall_.

Cullen called out to a couple of templars as he passed. "Marlein, Weston, with me. Someone's stolen my predecessor."

"You... what, Commander?" Ser Marlein looked up from teaching a recruit to clean around the rivets in his armour.

"Meredith's missing."

Cullen didn't stop long enough to see her face drain of colour, but he heard her footsteps as she and Weston hurried to catch up. They held their questions until they followed Cullen out onto the courtyard, followed the rivers of bronze to the spot where Meredith had knelt, red lyrium face and body twisted in agony.

"Where...?" Weston breathed.

"I don't know," Cullen said, finding the exact spot by the scorched patch of stone and crouching to get a closer look. "I don't know where, I don't why, I don't know who." She hadn't been dragged away, or if she had, the thief had been thorough in cleaning up. Lyrium dragged across stone would have left granules behind, possibly even scuff marks, depending on how... solid she was. And this? This was Kirkwall's absurdity at its height. Cullen was trying to figure out who had stolen -- kidnapped? -- his reviled boss, who was now a lyrium statue. "Okay, let's... try to work this out. Someone carried her. Maybe more than one someones. And no one caught them _carrying a statue_ through the gate."

"It is quite a lot of lyrium, Commander," Marlein pointed out. "You don't suppose that's why they took her?"

Weston kept squinting at the ground, as Cullen and Marlein talked, finally crouching and drawing his dagger to pick at something. "I don't think this is bird shit." He held up the dagger with a smooth, dull bump on the tip of the blade. "I'm not touching it, but I think it might be window lead."

Cullen caught on almost instantly. "If they put window lead on her, those parts would be safe to touch. Safer, anyway."

"But, _why_?" Marlein paced out the edges of the lead drips. "Who wants a sack-weight of madness? It's no good as lyrium, and even the regular kind catches up to you in time."

"What if it's not the lyrium?" Alain appeared almost soundlessly behind them, four other mages in tow. "What if it's _her_? Proof of death."

"If I hadn't seen it, myself, I'd pay for proof," Marlein admitted. "It's still hard to believe she's dead."

"Dead and gone," one of the other mages joked. "Why are we looking for her?"

"Because somebody had to touch her to move her, and that means whoever it is has probably gone crazy and is going to do something that none of us are going to like," another mage pointed out.

"What if it's the Merchant's Guild?" Weston asked, suddenly. "They'd know how to handle lyrium."

"Yes, but they'd also have let us know they were moving her." Cullen sighed and rubbed his face, crouching next to the indent where she'd been. "The Carta I might believe, and that just gives me nightmares." He would have to talk to Anton about that. From what he understood, Anton knew somebody who knew somebody who sort of knew somebody in the Carta, even if Cullen wasn't so convinced there were so many 'somebodies' involved in that equation.

"Maybe it was just someone with a grudge," Marlein suggested. "Maker knows she pissed off an awful lot of people. Ruined an awful lot of lives. I could see people paying for _that_ , as well, for the chance to smash her into tiny bits."

"It was tempting," one mage muttered, and few nodded in agreement. "I admit, I considered it, and I might have done it, but I don't trust that red lyrium stuff. Whacking her face with my staff isn't worth getting lyrium poison or worse. I rather prefer being sane."

But the mage next to him shook her head. "Tempting it may have been, but why not just smack the everliving daylights out of it here? Why take her away? Sounds to me like they're invested in keeping her intact, whatever it is they're doing."

"On the bright side," Weston noted, "wherever she's being dangerous and crazy-making, it's not in our front yard, any more!"

Alain nodded, looking a bit resigned. "It's true. It's difficult having people over, when you've got to tell them to watch for the giant, glowing mound of extra-dangerous lyrium out front." He cleared his throat. "Not that I've been having anyone over, of course."

"What, are you not paying enough?" one of the mages teased, elbowing him.

"It's not very nice in there." Alain shrugged. "I've stayed because I'd miss you guys, but even without the locks on the doors, it's decorated like a prison everywhere but the public rooms. I've seen nicer rooms in Darktown."

"We've got some serious budgetary constraints, right now," Cullen muttered, staring up into the sky and waiting for the universe to strike him down where he stood. Why had he ever thought a promotion was a good idea?

"Well, of course, what with the Chantry and all, but I think we can help. We've got some folks down at the Alienage, now, working on their new buildings and all. It's nice! But, I'm thinking this place could take a little magic. I know we've got some mages who do stone magic. It's got to be easier than trying to cut windows into the walls." Alain rocked back onto his heels and shrugged again. "I'm just saying, Commander, we don't have much, but we can probably do a little more with it."

Cullen blinked. "Stone magic." He hadn't thought of that. Why hadn't he thought of that? "Tell you what, Alain. Work out the details with Keran and have him run them by me, and we'll see what we can work out." That, at least, was something productive they could do, and he wouldn't mind some more light in the Tower. Maybe it would dissuade Anton from scaling the walls all the time.

"Are you looking for the red lady?"

Cullen looked up in the voice's direction to see a man staggering his way. It was a drunken sort of stagger, more of a forward-moving stumble, the man's hair wild and unkempt. "...yes?" Cullen eyed the stranger, wondering where he'd come from and how he'd ended up here.

"I saw 'em take her," the man slurred, pointing at the scorched patch where Meredith had been.

Cullen straightened. "'Them'? Who did you see?"

"They took her," the man repeated, nodding enthusiastically. He stretched out his arms and gestured over his head, almost smacking Weston in the face. "There was this... this stone giant! He picked her up and walked off. Wait. An old lady bossed him around and _then_ he picked her up and walked off. And there was someone else too... but mostly the stone giant. Oh! Maybe he was looking for a stone bride!"

Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose. "Stone giant. Right."

"They came out of the sewer," the man whispered, loudly.

"A stone giant came up out of the sewer with some lady, picked up the ... statue of the Knight-Commander, and then they left?" Marlein asked, cautiously.

"Well, first she danced around it with a little kid and a bucket. Like some kind of weird ritual. You don't think it's blood magic, do you? I bet you it was blood magic." The man nodded sagely, eyes wide.

"Lead?" Weston suggested, and Cullen nodded.

"Probably." Cullen took a deep breath. "We'll definitely look into it, serah. Can you describe any of these people for us?"

"Well, the stone giant was huge! And made of stone! You know, like rocks!" The man gestured to imply the size of the giant, which was, it seemed, actually gigantic. "And that lady it was with wasn't young, but she was real pretty. This long, curly red hair and tiny little feet..." He looked like he might swoon.

Marlein looked sidelong at Cullen. "So... we should keep an eye out for a not-young woman with curly red hair and tiny feet?" She kept her voice and expression neutral, but Cullen heard the disbelief in the words.

He shrugged. "I don't see any other witnesses stepping forward. Could you tell me about this child?"

"I trust he or she had tiny little feet too," muttered a friend of Alain, who tried to shush her through a smirk.

"Was a boy. I think." The drunk frowned at nothing, brows knit. "I dunno. I was distracted by the lady. Oh! And he about this tall." He gestured midway up his chest. "Ish. Against her, anyway. Short blond hair." He nodded decisively.

That was almost coherent, Cullen noticed. He wondered if Aveline would be up for helping him track down a blond boy and a red-haired woman. Like she didn't already have enough to do.

Weston eyed the drunk up and down. Not a mage or a templar, and he didn't seem to be shopping the marketplace. "What are you even doing here?" he asked.

Again the drunk frowned out at nothing as he thought about that. "Damned if I know."


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merrill moves back to the alienage. The eluvian continues to be difficult.

Merrill was supposed to be one of the first people to move back in to the Alienage, as construction on the first terrace finished up. She and Hahren Reeba needed to take the initiative and show the people the new buildings were safe, and also to be there to offer assistance, as other families started moving back in. The first terrace was thirty-two homes in eight towers, with ramps along the front of the buildings, to make moving people and furniture to the upper levels easier. The buildings were etched with scenes from Dalish legend, knotwork, and leaping halla, and vines were just starting to come up, where they'd be wound around the balusters on the ramps. The roofs, as promised, would be gardens, and Merrill could see people on them, spreading the soil needed for planting.

Of course, it was vital that she move back in as quickly as possible, and the dates conflicted with a series of classes Carver was teaching on defending against two-handed swords. So, she was determined to do the best she could, without him. Artemis was a force mage, and he would be just as much help for pushing furniture around as Carver would have been. 

She lingered a bit longer, running her fingers over the sturdy, new stonework, before heading across town to talk Artemis and Bodhan into helping her move back out of the Amell estate.

It turned out that Merrill had to do very little convincing and that making sad eyes at the people in question was all that was needed. Still, she wondered at the wisdom of her choice when Artie's magic sent one of her chairs smacking into a wall.

"Sorry!" he called back to her, his next pull of magic gentle as though in apology to the battered chair. "Usually when I move furniture, Cormac's on the other end with shields."

"Just remember that I'm on the other end this time, messere," said Bodhan, "and that I don't have shields of any sort?"

"Right. Sorry, Bodhan."

Pulling, Artie discovered, worked better than shoving, and he walked through Hightown with much of Merrill's furniture trailing along behind him like a gaggle of ducklings. Merrill followed at the end to make sure he didn't break anything and offered a smiling wave to those who stopped to stare at them.

"A cart," Artie decided after a while. "This would have made a lot more sense with a cart."

"Yes," Merrill agreed. "I'd have suggested it, but you looked like you knew what you were doing." She paused. "Should I get one? I could get one. Here, let's stop at the market and see if we can borrow one."

Smiling, she approached an armourer's stand. "Hello! You look like you move a lot of heavy things. May we borrow your cart? Just to go as far as Lowtown. We'll bring it right back. I'm afraid we didn't think this through very well."

Olaf studied her closely, as he rearranged his wares to cover the empty space left by the last customer's purchase. "My cart? You want me to just lend my cart to some strange elf and a mage with the sense of a sack of turnips?"

"Yes!" Merrill nodded. "Oh, but he's much smarter than turnips. And I'm not strange. I'm an elf like any other! Or, wait, no. You meant that the other way, didn't you. We're nobles! Lots of people know us. That's Lord Hawke and I'm Baroness Merrill. We just... Moving furniture is a bit of an adventure."

"Oh, you're nobles. Yep." Olaf nodded. "That explains it." He chuckled. "Well, I don't want anything bad happening to my cart, so how about you leave me two sovereigns, and if you bring it back with no damage, I'll give you one back."

"Oh! Like a rental! Yes, of course! What a good idea!" Merrill smiled so brightly that Olaf began to have some concerns about her wits. After a moment of digging in her pouch, she came up with a handful of coins, mostly silver and copper, but she picked out two pieces of gold and set them on the counter.

"Thank you," Artemis muttered, looking terribly embarrassed. "Let's try this again, shall we?"

The trip to Lowtown went quite a bit quicker on wheels, with marginally less shoving and pulling from Artemis, who still pulled from the front, gaining a newfound appreciation for the horses who used to pull his family's wagon. He walked the cart to a stop at the top of the stairs leading into the Alienage and took a moment to peer in at the construction. Artie hadn't been by in a few days, and the building closest the stairs had still been rough the last time he saw it.

"What do you think?" Merrill asked, circling the cart and its piled furniture to stand next to Artemis.

"I think it looks like a whole new city," Artie said, marvelling at the fresh stonework. He wanted to touch the shapes carved into the stone. "Our drawings didn't quite do it justice. But... do _you_ like it? Are you happy with it? You're the one living here." 

"Well, it's not finished, of course, but I think it's lovely." Merrill's smile was infectious. "And I'm a bit less worried about the roof caving in now."

"Always good! Um." Artemis considered the stairs, considered the cart. "We need a ramp. Or something we can use as a ramp. That would probably be a good idea, and I don't often have those."

"Oh, of course, they haven't put it in yet. There's supposed to be a merchant's ramp-- but you know that." Merrill looked around before running down the stairs and waving to one of the workers laying stone for the next terrace. After some animated conversation, the two returned with long boards.

"This is a little steep. You make sure you keep a good grip on that when you lower it down or it's going to go rolling off into one of the foundation pits," the dwarf warned, eyeing the cart of furniture.

"Don't worry! We can do this!" Merrill crouched and cast a spell on the boards, vines snaking up to grab onto the cart and pull it forward and down. She backed away, slowly, coaxing the vines to follow and bring the cart down with them. Once all the wheels were back on the ground, she dispelled the vines and checked the cart, to be sure it hadn't sprouted any leaves.

The dwarven worker eyed her with some combination of awe and horror.

"It's just a little magic. Completely harmless." Merrill assured her. "Don't you have mages helping with the construction?"

"They don't have plants that do their bidding!" the dwarf protested. "Surfacers! What will you think of next?"

"We like to keep you on your toes," Artie said, looking around distractedly. "Ah! I see you've put the vines in. That will be gorgeous when it grows in."

After thanking the dwarf for her help, Merrill led Artie and the cart to her new home. And she had to remind herself that this was _hers_. She'd spent most of her life living out of an aravel and the last few years living out of a rat-infested apartment, and while that had been hers, too, seeing it hadn't made her back straighten with pride in quite the same way.

"Come on in," she said, gesturing Artemis inside. "It's bigger than I'm used to. I'm not sure I have enough furniture to fill it up. Maybe I could get a few more chairs, over here in the corner."

"Or you could use the space to practice dancing," Artemis said, looking around. The windows let in the afternoon sun, making the rooms airier than what Artie was used to with dwarf construction. Natia had clearly outdone herself. "There's enough floorspace in here for a small ballroom!"

Merrill laughed and waved him aside. "No, there isn't!"

"A very small ballroom. Minuscule. Probably ill-fitting for Carver, then."

"And look! I have real rooms! And a bath that isn't also the kitchen table!" Merrill pointed to an open door. "A whole room just for washing! And a room for sleeping, and a room for... I guess I have a room for working, now. Probably good. I'm supposed to do noble things. I bet I'm supposed to have a desk. And we can put the eluvian in there, too." She paused, looking into one room and then the next. "Bedroom in the corner or in the middle? Which room would you want to wake up in? I can't decide..."

She lowered the back of the cart to start pulling furniture down. There wasn't much, but it had been enough to make her old place look crowded. This building up instead of out idea left so much more room for everyone. Maybe she could finally have enough shelves for all her books.

Artemis helped her fuss with the furniture. The bed, they'd decided, would go in the room that caught the best morning sunlight, since Merrill loved waking to daylight and sun-soaked sheets. Carver, Artie suspected, on the nights he slept over, would burrow into the sheets and pull a blanket over his head to avoid the sun. He'd never been much of a morning person.

They left space for more shelves and a comfortable chair Merrill didn't own yet, and the eluvian was the last thing they wrangled in from the cart. Merrill had thrown a sheet over it for the move, and now her sigh was wistful as she looked at it. Months. It had been months since she'd done any work on it, and a part of her wondered if there was still a point to it.

"Sheet on or off?" Artemis asked, noticing the way she was just staring at the eluvian.

"Off. It's... I tried so hard to get it to work, but... I don't know. It's still very pretty." Merrill lifted a corner of the sheet and blew at the dust that clung to a long curve of bone, in the frame. "Maybe if we just cleaned it up a little. I'm sure there's something I'm missing, but I just don't know where else to look! Maybe I should go back to those ruins, now that the darkspawn are gone and the Blight is over. Maybe I missed something. Did I tell you about the ruins? Oh, but Theron should tell you, really. He saw so much more than I did. We were just there looking for a friend, when I was there. I took nothing but this glass... But, there were statues of human warriors along the walls, and also one of Falon'Din. It was the strangest thing."

Merrill yanked the sheet off, and an enormous cloud of dust billowed off the eluvian. She staggered back, coughing and blinking. "Maybe we should clean it, either way."

Artemis coughed and sneezed into his sleeve, eyes watering. "Clean it. Yes. That is something we should do." With the amount of dust Merrill had just kicked up, maybe they should have just thrown a tempest at it and then let it dry in the sun. Rags and water. He needed rags and water...

"You mean you were looking for Tamlen, weren't you?" Artie asked as Merrill helped him gather the requisite cleaning supplies. "I remember him, though I can't say we talked much. I don't think he was particularly fond of my... humanness."

"He was always like that," Merrill said with a rueful smile. "A bit on the surly side from time to time, but... I miss him. Perhaps not quite so much as Theron does, but I think a part of him still blames himself for what happened."

The cleaning took longer than the moving had, with the two of them scrubbing the frame to a shine it may never before have had, every crevice free of dirt, dust, and shavings from the crafting of the frame. Merrill sang to herself, quietly, as she moved on to the glass, angling it into a beam of sunlight, to better see the surface, which was still, as she'd said before, muddy on the inside. It was nothing to do with the glass -- it was something to do with the magic. And then the fog cleared, suddenly, flashing an image of a red-tinged city with spires reaching toward a black sky.

"Artemis!" she hissed, dropping the rag. "It's working!"

Images flickered against the glass -- a forest with broken pillars, a room with only half a wall, a dragon's skull, a room made of crystal scattered with busted chunks from higher up the walls. But, it wouldn't focus. It wouldn't stop flashing and flickering. Eventually, it went muddy, again, with only the faintest shimmer of blue still hanging in the glass.

Artemis stared at it with round eyes, rag still clutched in his hand. "What just happened?" he asked, voice hushed. "How did we get it to do that?"

"I'm not sure," Merrill said, her hand hovering over the blue shimmer of glass. "Maybe I should have let you clean it months ago." With a steadying breath, Merrill murmured a few words, words Artemis recognised as the passcode she and Theron had worked out together. The surface of the mirror rippled again, still that glowing, shimmery blue, before returning to its muddy stillness. Merrill hummed and chewed her lip.

Artie shrugged. "Maybe it needs to be cleaner?"

But, no matter how much more washing they did -- and by the time they stopped, the mirror did reflect, at some angles -- the images of far off places never returned. Merrill stared at the eluvian in frustration, her hair disarranged with dried soap holding it off her face, from all the times she'd pushed it back with wet hands.

"It works," she insisted. "You saw it! But... it doesn't work all the time. What changed? What was different? We kept washing it!" She sighed and slumped, settling onto a box of books. "But, you saw it. I'm not crazy."

She threw the rag she'd been using back into the bucket of water. "We should probably eat something, and then bring back that poor man's cart, before it gets any later," she sighed.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anton gets a letter he's been waiting for. Cullen gives an explanation he's been putting off.

Anton sorted through the letters on his desk. More nobles objecting to the reconstruction of the Alienage, complaints about the conditions in Lowtown -- he'd have to talk to Varric about that, another threat of invasion from Starkhaven -- that would go to Bethany, invitations to events across the Marches, a delightful little note from Cullen, and... he recognised the handwriting on the last rag-paper envelope immediately. He'd seen it on enough half-finished drafts left lying around the house. The name, though, was different. That one he opened.

_Greetings from the banks of the Lattenfluss!_

_Jan Kasselmann, here, writing to confirm the purchase of several shares of the Maharian Quarry, locally known as the 'Bone Pit'. (What a dreadful name, but Tevinter...what can you do?) As I am once again home and have my accounts at the ready, we can complete this transaction, as recorded. I await your final word on the subject, Lord Amell._

It wasn't the first rather presumptive offer on the mine, but it was the first he recognised, and he shook out the envelope, to find three pressed buttercup blossoms in the bottom. This was the one he'd been waiting for. Tonight, he'd begin the paperwork to send quarterly shares of the mine's profits to the bank in Kassel. For the moment, though, he just took a few deep breaths. His brother and Anders were safe.

* * *

* * *

Carver rolled his shoulders and adjusted his grip on the shield for the third time in as many minutes. "I hate these things," he muttered, more to the world at large than to Alain, who offered him a sympathetic look. "It just keeps getting in the way."

"That's rather the point of shields, isn't it?" Alain said, shyly teasing. "To get in the way of things?"

There was no heat in Carver's answering glare, and he bent his knees, sword angled up, as he got into a ready position. "Not when it gets in _my_ way, it's not!" This was all Aveline's fault, really. Carver had been perfectly content in his shield-less existence until she'd humiliated him in front of his class last week. He had been in favour of some light sparring with her. He hadn't been in favour of having his sword knocked out of his hands and a shield bashed into his nose.

"Ready?" Alain asked, an ice spell at his fingertips, which glowed a ghostly blue.

Carver rolled his shoulders one more time. "Yes, yes, get on with it."

Samson leaned on the shoulder of one of the training dummies, watching the two spar, watching Carver eat spell after spell. "You know, maybe I could help, but I guess you don't need an old man like me telling you how to do that, now that you've got your feathers and all," he grumbled, in Carver's general direction.

"Or, I don't know, you could stop being a sulky prick and show me," Carver shot back, as Alain's ice spell splashed up and caught him in the face.

"Shit!" Alain cursed, warming his hands and brushing the ice off. "Are you all right? I didn't get you in the eye, did I?"

"No, no, it's fine." Carver waved him off, shaking the last of the slush out of the ends of his hair. "I just got a little distracted by grandpa whiny-pants over there. You going to help me out, Samson, or are you just going to stand around preening like you're cock of the walk?"

"Preening?" Samson drawled. "Lowly old me?" Still, there was the barest swagger in his step as he approached, meeting Carver's scowl with a thin smile. "Your problem, _Knight-Corporal,_ is that you're holding the shield like you're anticipating a sword coming at you. Now, last I checked, Alain here didn't even own a sword." He tipped a look at Alain, who shrugged and nodded. "Look alive, Corporal. Shield up." Grudgingly, Carver bent his knees again, this time angling his shield between him and Samson. "So, you shouldn't be focusing on one point of contact." Samson gave Carver's shield one hard poke of his finger. "You need to focus on an area and disperse what you can, dodge what you can't, and pray for everything else."

"Yes, yes, thank you for the lecture," Carver groused. "Are you going to actually show me, or are you just going to keep poking me in strategic places?"

Samson rolled his eyes and, taking hold of the edge of Carver's shield, tipped it at an angle. "Tilt it down, and stay behind it, smart-ass. The shield is curved for a reason. Let it do its work. Alain."

Alain straightened. "Yes, ser?"

Samson backed out of the way. "Give it another go."

Alain glanced at Carver, who shrugged ad nodded. "All right. Um. Let me know if I hit you, ser." Ice sprang to his fingers again, and Alain gave Carver a few seconds to prepare before throwing it at the shield.

Carver braced himself, shield angled down, and ducked his head behind the shield, wincing at the impact of ice that never came. Cold air chilled his toes through his boots and ice shards clattered to the cobblestones, but no sharps edges hit him. Carver waited for the bite of cold to stop before peering cautiously over his shield. "Huh." That trick wouldn't help him against Aveline, but really he -- or should be -- more focused on training recruits. Templar recruits.

"Look at that," drawled Samson. "Looks like I've still got some use after all."

As the older templar left, Carver rolled his eyes at his back. "Is he always like this?" he asked Alain. 

"Er." Alain shook his head. "I don't really know him very well, but... from what I've seen? Yes, yes, he is."

* * *

By the time Samson made it back to his bunk, that night, Cullen was waiting for him, looking strangely grim. 

"Put down your helmet. We're going for a bit of a walk," Cullen ordered, picking up a box from the bedside table.

"Regretting your decision to bring me back?" Samson grumbled, hanging up his helmet. "I was wondering how long that would take."

Cullen flipped open the box, as they walked back out of the room, and offered the contents to Samson. "Cheese pies. And no, I'm not regretting it. I'm worried about you."

"That's ridiculous. What are you worried about?" Samson scoffed, helping himself to one of the fried pies. "Mmm. Peach. Good choice."

"See, I was paying attention all those years ago." Cullen clanked an elbow against Samson's side. "But, Raleigh, you're sick. I know you were getting your lyrium somewhere, after Commander Crazy threw you out, and I think the quality was off. It's not the same stuff we get here. And I kept thinking you'd get better, once we got you back on the good stuff, but have you looked at yourself, lately? You look like you lost a fight with a darkspawn. I'm worried. You're sick. Tell me what you need."

Samson took his time eating his cheese pie, leaving Cullen holding his breath as he waited for a response. "You're jumping to a lot of conclusions there, _Commander_ ," he said, licking the last few crumbs off his fingers. "Not least of which that this is something you can fix, assuming there's something that needs fixing. I spent years trying to keep my head down, Cullen, after fighting for the very changes that got you promoted." Cullen tried not to wince at that. "Shit like that takes its toll. You're not gonna fix it in a few months, even with the good stuff."

"So you're saying that, with more time, you--"

"I'm saying not to bother, Cullen." Samson picked up another cheese pie, looking as unbothered as if they were simply discussing the weather. "So is this why?"

Cullen's brow knit. "Why what?"

"Why you promoted those kids above me. Because you're 'worried'?" Samson stuffed the rest of the pie into his mouth. "Nah, don't answer that," he said, mouth still full and spraying a few crumbs. "I wouldn't promote me either."

"Honestly, that's exactly it. You look like shit, Raleigh. I've seen you when you're healthy, and this isn't it. I'd have bumped you up, but I'm afraid the extra responsibility would kill you, and not metaphorically." Cullen shook his head. "I like you. We were friends, before all this shit, and I'd like to think we could be again. And as your friend, I'm not going to do that to you. For what it's worth, if you get better before you lose your mind, I've got Knight-Lieutenant's feathers with your name on them."

"Before I lose my mind..." Samson laughed. "You sure I haven't already?"

"Have you seen Roderick? Yes, I'm sure. We're having this conversation. You can't be lyrium mad, yet." Cullen shook the box. "Have another pie. They're the good ones, from that place in Hightown that makes the duchess cakes I like."

"I don't know if there's a better," Samson sighed, taking another pie. "I don't even know if coming back was the right decision, but by the Maker, it's vindicating. Just rubbing it in people's faces that I was right all along."

"Well, you were." Cullen looked away, embarrassed. "I didn't see it then."

"The only thing you could see then was that your armour wasn't going to save you from the demons," Samson replied around a fresh bite of pie. "And tell me, did _you_ ever get better? I see all this. You're the Commander, now, but did you?"

'Better' was a relative term by its nature, Cullen supposed. "Better than I was?" he asked with a crooked smile. "Yes. I am better, in that sense." He fiddled with the box in his hands, considered taking another pie and thought better of it for the moment. "I still see them sometimes, at night when I dream. I'll wake up, and for one horrible moment, I'll think I'm still there, that my life here, in Kirkwall, with Anton has all been a demon-induced dream. But then I look around and see where I am, sometimes with a dog sitting on my face, and I remember. I married into quite the magey family, it turns out, and... as horrifying as that revelation was at the time, I think it helped. It's hard to believe that mages aren't people or are hosts for demons when your family is full of them."

"No, indeed, from what I've seen, that family comes with its own sort of nonsense." Samson nudged Cullen with one armoured elbow, and his smile finally had less of a self-deprecating edge. He still didn't look healthy, not by a long shot, but in this light, he looked _better._ Cullen wished, then, that Anders were still around. Maybe he'd know how to fix this.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Checking in with our friends in the Anderfels. Also, introducing the Black Emporium.

Elsewhere, along the Lattenfluss river valley, Anders stood at the end of a row of barley, looking terribly tense and a bit sickly. "This sounded better in my head," he admitted, glancing at Cormac, who was laughing so hard he'd fallen to his knees.

"You forgot the important part. You need a barrier, if you're going to do that. Or at least a sheet." Cormac rolled onto his back, staring up at Anders. "You're really bad at this farming thing, aren't you?"

"I was _twelve_!" Anders protested. "I fed the chickens!"

"Leave it. We'll get that row last." Cormac giggled, making no move to get up, but he cast a barrier around the top half of the next row. "Okay, same thing, but cast it inside the barrier. Come on, my brother and I used to do shit like this all the time. And hurry up before your dad catches us using magic."

"Your brother has had more practice throwing things around," Anders huffed. Much of that practice had been on Cormac, from his understanding, and Anders was starting to see the appeal. With a steadying breath, Anders waited until his internal litany of swearing died down before casting again, catching the wind in his palms and throwing it at the row of barley. Stalks bent and fluttered in the wind until Anders gathered more, the wind whipping his hair into his face as he threw the barley into Cormac's barrier, stalks, seeds, and all. It was a mess, but less of a mess than his last attempt.

Anders blew the hair out of his face. "Better?"

"Take the bag down the other end and let me know," Cormac said, rolling off the sack they were supposed to be gathering the grain in, and handing it up to Anders. He pushed himself to his feet and looked down the row. "I think it worked. Anything weird will come out in the winnowing, and I'm pretty sure I can handle the threshing with Crushing Prison. Just need to figure out how hard to squeeze it, so we don't end up with rocks." He laughed and slipped an arm around Anders's waist. "I'm thinking trees, instead of grain, when we get our own place. I know trees."

Pressing a kiss to Anders's shoulder, Cormac let go and patted Anders's bottom. "Go see if we got it and tell me when to let go of the barrier."

Anders took the sack with one hand and brushed his hair back out of his face with the other. On days like this, he missed the clinic. Healing was something he knew, medicine, bandages, poultices. He could knit a broken bone or seal a wound and see the fruits of his labours immediately. It was worth the time in Darktown, even on days he barely escaped the chokedamp.

Farming, on the other hand, was something he was mostly doing blind, and he'd discovered the hard way that there was such a thing as too much sun and air. At least this recent attempt had proven mostly successful. Once he was ready, he called out for Cormac to drop the barrier and prayed for the best.

Cormac dropped the barrier, watching for anything falling in the wrong places. The idea was to make less work, not more, but there were going to be a few fuckups, before they got the hang of it. Hopefully, nothing too serious. Anders's father had a quick temper, and while Cormac wasn't the least bit afraid of the old man, he hated watching Anders fold up under the shouting. It was no wonder Anders's older brother had left town so young.

He shook his head to clear it, and made his way down the row. "I don't think we lost much! How does it look?" His eyes lit up as something occurred to him. "Hey, did you pick up any of that Starkhaven magic, before we left? You know, the thing Cullen was talking about, with the paper sorting? I tried to get that Alain kid to show me, but I was always terrible at Creation and useless with Force."

Brows knit, Anders checked the ground and the barley they'd gathered as he answered. "I picked up a bit of it, yeah," he said. "More of the copying spell than anything. Justice wanted my manifesto out there for anyone who would read it. Why? Do you think we could modify a clerical spell for farming work?"

"Winnowing." Cormac grinned. "Automatically identifying and separating the grain from the chaff and straw. If we can do that with a spell, we can do entire fields in a day. No more worrying about whether the harvest will be done before the frost rolls in or the crows get into the fields. I mean, sure, we'll do nothing but sleep the day after, but we'll end up taking more grain with less errors, and we'll do it faster. It'll shut your dad up, too. We'll be adding as much to the household as we're taking out of it, just in the barley we don't lose to bad processing. I used to work the Bannorn -- I know how that goes."

He paused and bumped his head against Anders's shoulder. "Besides, we just started a fucking revolution for mage freedom. I think it might be up to us to write the book on reintegration. Literal book."

Justice stirred in the back of Anders's mind, and Anders groaned internally. The thought of having a project was appealing, but after his manifesto, Anders thought he'd done enough writing for a lifetime. Still... "Using Creation and Force for winnowing? That is... actually one of your better ideas. Actually, that's kind of brilliant, if we can get it to work. I am very much in favour of anything that makes the harvesting go faster." And anything that made his father shut up, if he were honest with himself.

"So, let's get the rest of this down, and then we can start playing with it. We'll make this place the Kirkwall of the North. Magic that serves man, and all that." Cormac ran a barrier down the next row. "And that's something I never understood about Tevinter. If you're using magic properly, what in the name of Andraste do you need slaves for? It's stupid and inefficient. And rude." He shook his head. "Politics."

* * *

* * *

Varania didn't have much occasion to visit Darktown or much of a desire to, and she followed close in the shadow of her employer, Fran, and her lantern as they passed through winding tunnels turned corridors. Varania tried to keep track of their steps. She had a decent sense of direction and a better memory, but within a few turns, she was lost and reliant on the woman in front of her.

"Almost there," Fran said cheerfully, her smile holding none of the fear Varania felt. But after one more turn, Varania found their way lit by pale candlelight. The ground beneath her creaked and shifted, and Varania clutched at Fran's cloak, looking down to see that they were on a bridge, the floorboard beneath her loose.

Fran tutted and gestured Varania onward. "I'll have to have Urchin look at that," she said. "Wouldn't do to have a customer trip and fall in the wrong direction."

"Customer?" Varania echoed, following Fran along the candlelit bridge. She had said something about needing supplies, but surely there couldn't be a _shop_ down here...

Fran jiggled the door at the end of the bridge and leaned into it -- it popped open with a thump. "Daddy? We're here! What do you need help with, before I get that cloth?"

Varania blinked into the room -- a surprisingly well-lit assortment of ... honestly, it looked like any number of magisters' family heirloom collections. In the centre of the room was a strange statue of a dead man with too many arms. "...Daddy?" she asked.

"Oh, yes, did I not say? This is my father's store. Welcome to the Black Emporium." Fran smiled brightly and approached the strangely-glowing dais and its statue. "What was it, daddy?"

"What?" The voice sounded like a man waking from sleep, but nothing in the shop moved. "Urchin! Bring me a moist towelette!"

"I'm standing right here, daddy. I'll get it for you. Don't bother Urchin." Fran sighed, stepping to the side of the dais which held an assortment of common necessities -- lotions and potions and moist towelettes.

"Urchin exists to be bothered," the voice insisted. "Who is that with you?"

Fran took a towelette and daubed at the statue. "Varania, come meet my father! Daddy, this is Varania -- she works for me. A very nice young mage. Varania, this is my father, Lord Xenon of Kirkwall, an antiquarian by trade."

"I see," said the disembodied voice Varania was still trying to find the source of. Fran was talking to that grotesque statue, but... no. A few hacking coughs filled the room, and the statue didn't move for that either. "Come a little closer, into the light. Let me have a good look at you."

Closer. To the statue-thing that spoke without moving. Varania had seen many odd things in Tevinter, but this one was new. "Er... it's lovely to meet you, messere," she said, stepping more towards Fran than towards Xenon. She considered shaking one of his frozen hands only to decide, with barely suppressed hysterical laughter, that she didn't know which hand to shake.

Varania's elbow knocked against something as she passed, and she reached her hands out automatically to steady whatever it was she'd almost knocked over. And wasn't that odd? She could swear there was stone under her hands, smooth marble, yet when she looked, she was touching air.

Xenon made a vaguely alarmed sound. " _Please_ , do not fondle Andraste!" he admonished.

"What?" Varania continued to grope the not-stone, checking that it was, in fact, still there and not a figment of her imagination. And then it occurred to her, as her hands moved over its surface, that the stone bore a familiar shape. Ears twitching, Varania drew her hands back as though stung. "Sorry!"

"Daddy, you really should consider putting up sign there," Fran said, fondly exasperated.

"Nonsense. Urchin has enough to do," Xenon replied.

"Do you have any more of that Tevinter silk? The nice blue mageweave stuff?" Fran asked, choosing a pineapple scented salve and painting it onto Xenon's face.

"Of course, my dear. We had a visitor the other day. Turned out to be a Venatori! We fed him to the monster under the floorboards. He made a delightful crunching noise. Are they all like that?" Xenon's voice canted up with the question. "Either way, he was smuggling it into Kirkwall, and now we have some in stock. You may take some, since I did not pay for it."

"Thank you, daddy." Fran cooed, indulgently, gesturing for Varania to follow her to the back of the room, where storage shelves lined the space behind a table laid out with bizarre bits of enchanted weaponry and armour.

"Venatori? Here?" Varania sounded surprised and a bit uncomfortable with the idea. "That's ... I do wonder why. I have to wonder if they're not planning to take back Kirkwall, while we're busy rebuilding."

"Oh, I'll never know," Fran scoffed, opening the barred door of a cabinet. "Daddy doesn't ask. He has no use for politics, only for magic. He's been like this since I was a little girl -- I keep hoping someone will find a cure for him."

Varania tried not to stare at Xenon, especially while walking in a room that was, for all she knew, fraught with invisible sculpture. "I don't mean to be rude, but..." Varania whispered to Fran. "What, exactly, is wrong with him?"

"Old age," Fran said gravely, digging through the fabric she found in the cabinet.

Varania waited for the punchline, but it didn't come. Last she knew, old age didn't affect elves that way. Well. She was assuming Xenon was an elf, since his daughter clearly was. "Just... how old, exactly?"

Fran tipped her head to the side as though mentally counting. "300 years, give or take a dozen. He lost count a while back, and I've had to make my best guess."

Varania was going to pretend that made sense. Magic. She'd grown up around magic and knew it could twist all sorts of things. "And... at how many years did he grow a second pair of arms? Is that what happens when elves keep on living?" A horrifying thought, considering all the legends of immortal elves. She rather preferred not to picture those elven heroes looking like this.

Fran chuckled. "Oh no. That is the side-effect of another supposed cure that... went a bit differently than expected. No matter. He -- ah! Here it is." She plucked the fabric she'd been looking for off of the shelf and tucked it under her arm. "Fade-touched. Perfect. Worthy of our illustrious viscount, don't you think?"

"Sure," Varania said distractedly, only then noticing a statue next to the cabinet that was, thankfully, perfectly visible. Or perhaps not thankfully, considering its anguished-looking subject. "That... that isn't _Meredith_...?"

"What? Of course that's Meredith. We couldn't just leave her in the middle of the courtyard like that!" Fran shook her head and rolled her eyes. "People would have come along and started chiselling bits off, and then that stuff would've been all over Kirkwall. You'd never have found it all. The city might never have recovered."

"There's nothing for her to grow into, in there," Xenon drawled from his chair. "At least I assume there isn't. I haven't been able to look behind me for two centuries."

"There isn't, daddy. I promise. Urchin and I made sure of it when we moved her in."

"Why can't he look behind him?" Varania asked, after a moment studying Meredith and her metal cage. "It's quite obvious why he can't turn around, I don't mean that, but surely mirrors or some sort of axle and hub design for that platform. Surely there are ways to compensate!"

"He has difficulty trusting. It's just Urchin, Thaddeus, and myself --" Fran started, but Xenon cut her off.

"Difficulty trusting? Who should I trust? Those dwarves who keep trying to tunnel in and steal from us? The adventurers and their quick fingers, with morals that only apply on the surface? No, no. I have what I need," Xenon huffed, and if Varania didn't look, she could see his shoulders hike with it.

Varania looked around the shop, at the odds and ends, the piles of... stuff she couldn't quite identify. "You called this a shop," she said. "What is it, exactly, that you sell?" Besides nightmares, she supposed, Meredith still faintly glowing out of the corner of her eye.

"All manner of curiosities pass my way," Xenon said, and Varania pictured him preening. "Some of those -- ah, that reminds me. Urchin, have you remembered to feed Chauncey today? I'd rather he not chew on our visitor's toes."

Varania's toes curled as she looked down and around warily. "Chauncey? Who's Chauncey? He's not invisible too, is he?"

"No, no," Fran assured her. "Just very small. Adorable, really, but his teeth are a bit on the sharp side. Bit off a dwarf's pinky from what I understand, so I don't recommend petting."

"Petting?" Varania hoped they were talking about a cat.

"A tiny bear," Xenon clarified. "You may pet him, but be gentle. A magister miniaturised him specially and at great cost. Do not antagonise him. He nips."

Not a cat, then. Perhaps not as bad as what she'd been expecting, but definitely not a cat. A tiny, domestic bear sounded rather cute, actually -- provided it was actually domesticated, and not just shrunken. A small wild bear would be a nightmare -- which this shop seemed to specialise in. "I'll do my best not to antagonise Chauncey," Varania promised, glancing nervously around.

"He's less trouble than an angry cat," Fran assured her, answering the question that hadn't been asked. "Daddy has all sorts of strange things, from a velvet painting of the Queen of Ferelden's first husband to a great chest of unanswered invitations. And he does a brisk trade in unusual crafting components, like this silk. Occasionally turns a man invisible. Useful, if a bit unpredictable."

Varania bent to examine a crate that made strange clicking and tapping sounds. The book on top did not appear to be related.

"Death watch beetles," Xenon explained. "From Orlais. They were terribly in fashion for a time, lost favour after Emperor Judicael I's little hissy fit at that ball in Val Royeaux."

"I see," said Varania politely, though she really didn't. The book on top of the crate, however, looked suspiciously ordinary, if dense, at least from what she could see. Poking at the cover told her that the book was solid, real, and unlikely to attack her.

"That's the Emergent Compendium," Fran informed her, looking amused. "I'd tell you what's inside, but it's different for everyone."

Varania's eyebrow twitched up, her curiosity piqued. Since neither Xenon nor Fran told her not to touch it, Varania opened the compendium. It fell open to a blank page, which was odd, considering the size of the tome, but as Varania watched, ink lines appeared, sketching out shapes as though from an invisible hand wielding an invisible pen. The shapes eventually became one shape, a drawing of a boy with big eyes and a large, floppy hat. Strange. Stranger still were the nonsense letters that appeared under the drawing. What language was this?

Something warm and hairy brushed Varania's ankle, and she jumped. 

"Ah, there's Chauncey!" Fran announced.

Varania watched Fran crouch down beside the little bear, scratching behind its ears. "He doesn't bite much, do you Chauncey?"

The bear whuffed and nosed into Fran's palm.

"He... does seem to like you," Varania ventured, still eyeing the tiny creature a bit suspiciously.

"Chauncey's a very friendly little bear," Fran assured her, ruffling the bear's fur, before she stood back up. "But, yes, this place is here, and Daddy always has the strangest things. So, if you're looking for something unusual, just ask. If he doesn't have it, I'm sure he'll have seen it at some point."

"Such faith this girl has in me. A true wonder, if far too late." Xenon sounded almost fond.

And Varania did wonder, although she said nothing. How old was Fran? Had Xenon adopted her? That would make so much more sense than the alternatives.

"It's true," Fran cooed back at her father. She stepped around his dais again, leaving Varania with a bear sitting on her foot. "Is there anything else I can do for you, while I'm here, daddy? I am terribly sorry it's been so long between visits."

"Nonsense," said Xenon. "From what I understand, the surface has been much more interesting these past few weeks. I don't think I would visit me either."

"No more interesting than usual," Fran said, "but I suppose that says more about Kirkwall than anything. Thanks again, daddy." She pressed a kiss to what Varania assumed was Xenon's cheek. "I'll come back later in the week to see if you need anything."

"Um. Thank you for hospitality," Varania said with an awkward half-bow she knew he couldn't see anyway. Giving Chauncey's head an uncertain pat, she walked around the bear to Fran's side, mindful of any invisible objects.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra finds herself disappointed, once again. These Hawkes are really getting on her nerves.

Anton had his feet on the desk, when Bran came in, looking even less amused than he had before the last petitioner.

"Get your feet off the table, Your Lordship. The Seeker is here to see you again, and I don't need you lowering the Chantry's opinion of Kirkwall any further, right now." Bran lingered in the doorway to the inner office, waiting.

"If the Chantry isn't going to pick itself up and start helping people, it's cordially invited to take its toys and go back to Val Royeaux," Anton spat, sitting up and heaving the enormous book from his lap back onto the desk. "Who wrote this crap? It's horrible!"

"What are you reading?" Bran asked, almost afraid of the answer, as he recognised the binding style.

"City law. It's confusing and stupid, and it contradicts itself all over the place. We really need to get some people to read this over and draft a new version that's actually readable. I gather the newer laws are supposed to replace the older ones on the same subjects, but the older ones aren't crossed out and the new ones don't reference the ones they're meant to replace! It's just too easy to make a mistake!" Anton ran a hand through his hair, knocking his circlet down the back of his chair. After a moment of fishing around, he found it and put it back on his head. "Well, let her in, then! The law is stupid, and it can wait."

Bran shook his head wearily, his sigh long-suffering as he poked his head back out into the hall and gestured the Seeker into the room.

"Hello again!" Anton said, sickeningly cheerful, as Cassandra paused in front of his desk. "It's lovely to see you. I'm afraid I don't have any of those spinach pastries today. More's the pity."

"I'm afraid I am not here for your pastries," Cassandra said, "as tasty as those were." She still hovered in front of his desk, and suddenly it occurred to Anton that he was being rude.

"I may not have pastries, but I do have chairs. Rather nice ones, in fact. Wonderfully cushy." Anton gestured at the chair closest to Cassandra. "Please avail yourself of one, if you wish." Really, he'd just rather she stop looming.

"Thank you." Cassandra looked no more comfortable seated, it turned out, and Anton wondered if she was always like that or if he was just special. "You are, of course, aware already that I am here on Divine Justinia's behalf. While the state of Kirkwall's Chantry was and is terrible, that is not what brought me here."

Anton's eyebrows arched curiously. "Is that a fact? Then what _are_ you doing in our fair city?"

Cassandra paused and cleared her throat, watching Anton's face, intently. "Are you familiar with the Inquisition?"

"The lunatic early Andrastians bent on murdering every mage in Thedas, before the Chantry tamed them? Oh, yes, and I'm familiar with the Templars as well. Not so tame any more. Seems a good many of them have gone feral, in fact." Anton's smile could have put a layer of frost on a fresh pot of tea. "I'm married to the Knight-Commander of Kirkwall. I'm familiar with the history of the Order."

"I will never understand why the Divine chose that name, in these times, but it is not my place to ask." Cassandra opened her mouth to continue, but Anton cut her off.

"The Divine? Are you telling me the Divine has chosen to ... resurrect the Inquisition, in light of this abject failure of the Templar Order to do their bloody jobs?" Anton's voice grew steadily louder, until he was quite certain Bran could hear every word. "And why have you come to me, then? To give me the opportunity, as the Champion of Kirkwall, to kiss my family goodbye, before you have them all killed for being my father's children?"

"What?" Cassandra looked entirely taken aback. "No, no, this is very much the opposite situation. The Divine is looking to create a force to prevent the worst abuses on either side. To _prevent_ another Kirkwall, another Kinloch Hold. And she is looking for someone to lead it. That is why I am here, Viscount. Divine Justinia asked me to choose a competent hero, beloved by the people, to become the new Inquisitor."

Anton sat back. " _Me_? Lead an arm of the Chantry?" Anton's face twisted, and he coughed into his fist. "Excuse me, but I'm about to choke on my horrified laughter."

Cassandra shrugged one shoulder. "It is an honest offer," she said. "An honest request, even. We need -- the Inquisition needs -- someone with your... _charisma_ at its helm."

Charisma. Anton coughed again. "Oh, look at that. More horrified laughter. You will forgive me, Seeker, but after what happened here, I am leery of any sentence that puts the word 'honest' in the context of the word 'Chantry'." Cassandra didn't bristle, but she straightened in her seat. "No offense meant, Seeker. I am sure the Divine's intentions are good. In fact, a third party policing the templars and mages isn't the worst idea I've heard, but I'm not sure what you expect _me_ to do with it."

"The same thing you have done for this city," Cassandra said. "Reach out to both templars and mages, earn the trust and respect of the people."

"I'd like to remind you that I managed to do all that quite by accident."

"Perhaps, but the people recognise your competence. They would trust you. And truly, would they be wrong? You are the Champion. You single-handedly defeated the most dangerous enemy this city faced."

"True story?" Anton sighed. "I didn't. It was politics. I struck the final blow, and several more before it, but I didn't do it alone. And what I've done for this city? You mean what I'm _doing_ for this city. It's not finished. I'm not finished. I can't just leave Kirkwall with an elven baroness, a freshly rebuilt alienage, and construction starting on Lowtown. It'll be war, in days. The nobles don't much like me, or my politics. I'm viscount by _popular_ vote. Lowtown elected me, not Hightown. Everything I've done would be undone in a matter of hours and then I'd just have wasted my time and accomplished nothing, and what kind of message is that to send to the Chantry and its people?"

"But--" Cassandra began, preparing to deliver a rousing response.

"No," Anton replied, simply, leaning back in his chair. "I won't abandon the people of Kirkwall. And you don't want my help, anyway. I'm an infamous gamesman. A gambler, and a very good one, if I do say so, but not really the sort you want in charge of some new, revolutionary commission on magic. You want my older brother -- oldest brother, really."

"The one who married the elf?" Cassandra couldn't recall the other Hawke brother's name, but she definitely remembered the elven nobleman he lived with.

"No, the one who disappeared with the Darktown healer."

Cassandra rubbed her forehead, the skin tight around her eyes. "The... other brother. The one I have not met?" At least, she hoped he was the only Hawke sibling she hadn't met. 

Anton nodded. "The one who got punched by an ogre and almost lost an arm to a dragon." Which probably didn't do too much for his argument, in hindsight.

"And you say he ran off with this Darktown healer, who I keep hearing about? Why do you think I should be looking for _him_?"

"Because if you're looking for a leader and a Hawke, he's your best bet." Anton almost felt bad for Cassandra, for the tired way her shoulders started to droop. "And he's already invested in this mage-templar war. You want the Hawke who faced down the Arishok? Then you want him. You want Cormac."

"And I suppose if I find him, he will point me in the direction of another sibling," Cassandra said. "That seems to be the pattern so far. As charming as your family has been, Viscount, this is getting repetitive."

"It's been repetitive, so far, because you weren't given enough background to find the right one of us. You _are_ looking for me. You _should be_ looking for him. And if you find him, let me know. I owe him fifty sovereigns." Anton paused, holding up his hands. "You have to understand why Cormac's the one. Obviously, you're aware that our father was Malcolm Hawke -- a mage."

"You're telling me your brother's an apostate?" Cassandra interrupted.

"My brother was my father's replacement. The rest of us were his kids, but Cormac was the oldest, and Dad wasn't gentle. If anything happened to Dad, Cormac was supposed to save us. More than that? He did. We got out of Lothering, because that idiot ran headlong into an ogre, to give my sister a chance to get a shot in. He's willing to make sacrifices you'd never ask from anyone, if he believes what he's doing is right -- and he'll sacrifice _himself_ , not anyone else. First in, last out, every time. I kept us eating, when we got to Kirkwall. He kept us safe. Besides, he's strong, handsome, and heroic. Women will swoon. He'll catch them. But, the man's got no patience for bullshit. My patience ... well, I once thought it was endless, and then somehow I became Viscount of Kirkwall. He's got a style. You're going to want someone else to handle delicate negotiations, but if you want someone who's not afraid to tell people there's gong to be change -- someone who's going to mean it? ... Actually, in that case you want my husband, but he's busy. But, if you can convince Cormac that you're doing the right thing, he'll bring it together in ways you never even considered doing it. And he'll tell you if you're wrong."

The chair creaked as Cassandra sat back, staring out the window without seeing it. "Your family is a curious one, Viscount," she said, "which, I assure you, means something coming from me." The smile she gave him was more of a grimace. "But, the way you speak... You don't know where Cormac is now, do you?"

"Not a clue," Anton answered cheerfully.

"Of course," Cassandra sighed. "From your description, he sounds like just the sort of man we need. But that does not help me if I cannot find him. That, and if he's run off with the mage who, rumour has it, incited the rebellion..." She shook her head. "I cannot see the Divine approving."

"I assure you that the Divine wouldn't approve of me, either."

"Oh, I don't know," Cassandra said around a growing smirk. "Sister Nightingale spoke highly enough of you. But I see that there is no convincing you." She rose to her feet as she spoke, pausing just long for Anton to object -- which he didn't -- before continuing. "As you say, you have other duties, and the people of Kirkwall need stability now, of all times. I wish you the best of luck, and I am sorry to have wasted your time."


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting of the Noble Council of Kirkwall. The baroness is unimpressed. The viscount wants a potion for this headache.

"I don't give a fuck what the Vint thinks!" Lord Bonnaire shouted down the table. "The Vints had their chance and you see what they did to this place! There's fucking demons in everything!"

"Bonnaire, my ass," Lord Marchaund whispered to Lady LeClair, and she giggled quietly, behind her hand.

"Vint?" Lady Olmos asked, eyes blazing as she leapt up and slammed her hands on the table. "My family have been living in Kirkwall since the Steel Age! And we're from _Antiva_!"

"Antivan, Tevene, it's all the same language anyway." Lord Bonnaire crossed his ankles on the edge of the table and leaned back. "The point is, we don't need foreigners telling us what to do with _our_ city."

" _Your_ city?" Lord Brannon knocked over his chair as he leapt to his feet. "You bloodsucking Orlesians have been trying to wring out every drop the Magisters didn't take with them when they left! Lady Faolain and I are the only members of the Council from Marcher families at all! At least Antiva City used to be a Marcher city before it grew into a whole nation! You don't like it, go crying to your poncey Ciriane friends down south!"

Anton glanced at Bran and rolled his eyes, getting an exhausted head-shake, in return. "This is hardly the point. The fact is that all of you are of noble families sufficiently well-respected to have earned a spot on the council. All else aside, you are members of the Council of Kirkwall, and I expect you to behave like adults, and not like my little brother, when he was all of six. Stop pulling each others' hair and get back on point. Baroness Merrill proposes that Lowtown is in serious need of public works. The roads are potted so badly there are merchants who can't get their carts to the market. We have cracking walls and leaking roofs. The sewers are backed up into Darktown in at least two places I can name. Is this the Kirkwall we want to show to the rest of Thedas? It's between the Docks and Hightown. Every visitor passes through it. Completely preventable diseases are rampant, and a lot of these people _work for you_ , so they're bringing that into your homes. Now, what are we going to do about it?"

"Aren't there already construction efforts being done in Lowtown?" Lord Tolbert sniffed. "And now you're asking for _more_? I was unaware the Noble Council was a charity!"

Lord Bonnaire loudly hummed his agreement, while Anton rubbed his forehead where a headache was growing.

"You mean the Alienage?" Merrill asked, sitting straight-backed and uncomfortable next to Lady LeClair, who had yet to even acknowledge she was in the room. "The Alienage is a part of Lowtown, true, but this is a separate problem. Separate _problems_. The roads in Lowtown are narrow as it is, and if a cart gets stuck, it could hold up the entire quarter. We already have a construction crew willing to work on the repairs, as well as volunteers who are eager to help fix up their -- _our_ city."

"But there is still the cost of materials," Lady Olmos continued before Merrill could. "And the cost of the workers aside from the volunteers. Lowtown is quite a bit in disrepair, I hear, but this is still an enormous project, on top of another enormous project. How much of this is going to come out of our pockets?"

Lady Olmos sounded sceptical, but at least she wasn't outright hostile, which was more than Anton could say of most of the room.

"My family owns a mine directly beside an old Tevinter quarry," Anton pointed out. "The materials cost is primarily paying the miners and smiths for their service in producing the materials. Just think -- Clean buildings of the Imperium's favourite stone, full of healthy people, who are ready to go to work. If there were ever an insult to Tevinter, I think that would be it. A single-finger salute executed with both hands." He paused and waved to Bran. "And yes, your money. Let's talk about your money."

A book landed on the table with an echoing thump, and Anton opened it to somewhere near the middle. "Here we have the records of the reconstruction of the Alienage. It was a huge project that needed to be done extremely quickly, since the buildings were in poor enough repair they were actually dangerous to leave standing. Let's see... The Chantry contributed nothing, which is to be expected -- they have their own problems, right now. Though it looks like they have been contributing to providing food for the poor, which is a nice change. Sister Lorena has been very good about keeping me in the loop about the Chantry's public expenditures. And it looks like we've had several private donations from the Merchant's Guild. The dwarves are very interested in this project. They've got a lot of pride riding on living somewhere with decent construction. Oh, and here's the Miners' Guild contributions... And it looks like thirty percent of the Alienage construction is being paid straight out of _my_ pocket. Your taxes, total, account for twelve percent of what's gone to the project. Now, what was that about another massive expenditure you can't afford?"

Silence fell over the table, broken only when Anton shut the book with another satisfying thump. None of the nobles were quite able to meet his eye. Except for Merrill, of course, who met his glance with a proud smile.

"I should still like to see the exact numbers of what this will cost and to whom," Lord Brannon said. "But... there are, perhaps, worse uses of our resources." He ignored Lord Bonnaire's glare and Lady LeClair's thin-lipped expression.

Anton sat back and grinned. "One might even argue this is one of the very best uses of our resources. We'll make Kirkwall the envy of the Marches, yet!" He considered saying the envy of Orlais, considering the faces around him, but Anton wasn't sure he wanted Kirkwall to be the envy of Orlais.

"Not with the Chantry in ruins, we won't," Guillaume de Launcet grunted from the other end of the table. And Anton had been enjoying the silence from his end of the table... "And what are we doing towards that, Viscount? The house of Andraste is in tatters, and you come to us about potholes in Lowtown? The shame of it! Rebuilding the Chantry should have been our first priority!"

"Render unto Kirkwall what is Kirkwall's, and unto Andraste what is hers," Anton replied with a shrug. "The Chantry has not invited the city to participate in their reconstruction, but the figures are available from Sister Lorena, in the chapel, downstairs. Sister Lorena is also accepting private donations of costs, labour, and materials, if you would like to contribute. We, the city, were asked to confirm the borders of the property and then step back, to let Her Holiness bring in architects and craftsmen she trusts. Bran sent out our surveyors, at once, and they've done their part. Sisters Lorena and Samea have the rest under control, as accountant and local liaison for the project. I have heard they may be looking for Serault glass for some of the windows, so if any of you have connections..." He shrugged again, expressively.

"Oh, Serault glass is the very loveliest!" Merrill chimed in. "I'm sure it will be so beautiful! Everyone should have a beautiful place to worship, don't you think?"

"Is that... _elf_ even Andrastian?" Lord Tolbert demanded.

"Sit down, Tolbert," Lord Brannon sighed, reaching over to pull out the chair.

"How many times do I have to tell you it's 'tol-BEHR', you illiterate son of a barbarian?" Lord Tolbert roared, jerking to his feet and glaring down at Lord Brannon.

"All in favour of pronouncing it 'tol-BEHR', say aye," Lady Faolain drawled, and the table fell silent. "It's a good Alamarri name, Alderic. Do stop slaughtering it with your pretensions."

"As I was about to say, does it even matter if the Baroness is Andrastian? She clearly supports us having nice things," Lord Brannon argued. "And if the lot of you are representative of Our Lady's finest, is it any wonder she hasn't joined us, yet?"

The look Bran made into his ledger said he agreed, while Lords Tolbert and de Launcet still looked ruffled but otherwise kept their complaining to a grumble.

"Serault glass, you say?" said Lady LeClair with a smug smile. "I could look into it. Our Chantry deserves the very finest, and you know the marquis is a cousin of mine?"

"A few times removed," Lord Bonnaire pointed out, "as you are so fond of reminding us. Any mention of The Shame, and you're hardly related at all. But getting the finest Serault glass? 'Oh yes, the marquis is a cousin of mine'!" He said this last in a breathy, high-pitched voice.

Lady LeClair's cheeks coloured. "I do not sound like that!"

Anton wondered if this was what it was like to have children.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theron tries to convince his clan to build on Sundermount. Cullen has a long talk with Carver about Merrill.

"It just doesn't sound like a very Dalish thing to do," Ineria argued, crossing her arms and lifting her chin. She'd been fighting everything Theron proposed, since the Keeper's death. "We're a Dalish clan. We wander Thedas, like our ancestors did before us."

"We're Dalish," Theron pointed out, untangling the fingers of the child sitting on his shoulders from his hair. "As in, of the Dales. Do you know what we did, in the Dales? We built a city so great the shem got envious. I'd say settling down is a perfectly Dalish thing to do. Besides which, we have no halla, and we've been living on the same mountain for almost eight years. There's really no reason not to build here. There used to be a settlement, here, and that varterral is proof of it. Our people went to war with Tevinter on this mountain, and you know what? We're back. We've been back for hundreds of years, and yet, we've never dared to try again. We're in a good place for it -- just far enough from a trade route to still use it, without inviting lost idiots; near a shem city that's as close to aligned with us as we can hope for without a permanent settlement; the land is unarguably ours, as it has always been. There's no reason not to."

"And if we settle here and the shem turn on us?" Ineria countered. "What happens then? We'll have no easy way of escaping when they march on our camps. There is a reason we haven't set down roots. It always ends the same!"

"And without our halla, you think we are any better off as we are?" Theron shot back. "We've already settled here, lethallan. There are weeds growing around our aravels' wheels. You speak of not wanting to set down roots, by the roots are already there." As he spoke, he extricated the child's fingers from his ear, where they had wandered after tangling in his hair... and after pausing in her mouth.

Ineria still shook her head. "Keeper Marethari would not have approved," she said, which to Theron meant she was out of arguments.

"Would she not?" Theron asked as a second child tugged at his sleeve. "We stayed here for years under her leadership. Or under the leadership of what we thought was her. She would have no room to argue, were she here, and I don't know that she would."

Paivel balanced Paulla on his hip, as he watched the argument bounce back and forth. "Marethari is no longer our keeper. Theron is correct," Paivel pointed out. "And even when she was, near the end, she was already gone. You must remember she was my friend -- we were children, together, before your parents were born. She was wise and gentle, and that's why she came to be Keeper so late. Some of you remember her before Sarel died. But, even then, she was still kind. She still took an easy hand. No, this demon changed her -- made a mockery of everything she stood for." He handed Paulla another bunch of berries and promptly regretted it as she mashed some into his hair and rubbed it in, no doubt ogling the colours.

"Then we're supposed to trust this airhead?" another hunter asked, pushing his hair back. "This flat-eared halla-fucker?"

"You take that back! He never ... manhandled my halla!" Maren complained, shoving forward to confront the hunter.

"Maybe that's why we have no halla," Junar joked, getting elbowed by Maren for the comment, "they were all sick of the Shem Tamer."

"More likely they were sick of your bad jokes, Junar," Kalli replied with a sharp smile, and that, more than Maren's elbow, shut him up. Kalli had a child wrapped around her knee, but both hands were free for punching. "You all know I would be the first to call my husband an airhead, but I'm not hearing any other solutions, just more whining. What are your ideas, then, Junar? Ineria? Fenarel? Sit on our thumbs and pretend we have any intention of going anywhere? Or does one of you have a halla up your ass? It would explain a lot."

Paivel cleared his throat, stepping in again before the elves she named could do more than bristle. "If you saw the work being done in Kirkwall's Alienage, you might better see the appeal. Their buildings are of stone, but they honour the old ways as surely as we do. Or as we should. I can't say I've ever had a home with a roof, a real roof, but I imagine it would be nice during the spring rains."

"Think of it -- a defensible home, and one we haven't got to chase the shem hunters from the edges of. We can have ramparts and palisades to do it for us. A few guards to circle the wall at night and chase off the idiots, so we can sleep a whole night through. You know how hard it's been, these last couple of years, with them creeping up on us." Theron swung his arm out to gesture to the heavily wooded edge of the camp, and one of the Tevinter children leapt up to pull herself up onto that arm.

Ashalle moved to remove the elflet, as Theron's shoulder strained. "And think of how hard that's been on the children, waking up like that every few hours. We have a rare chance here -- one of our own is a baroness, now."

"And besides, Hahren Paivel's right. The buildings there are beautiful. I helped design some of them." Theron grinned and resisted the urge to flinch at the increasing puddle of drool in his hair. "You'd have to see them to believe, but... In dwarven stone with perfect joints do statues of our own gods rise, carved into the building-sides and dancing round the vhenadahl, the tree that keeps their faith. Their houses rise up, high as hills, and gardens hang from every roof. A wonder, there, of fruits and grains and herbs for every common use for all elvhen in need. They have a place for telling tales, engraved with heroes and with gods from Garahel to Ghilan'nain, Lindiranae to Tanaleth, their stories on the stone. The mages keep their cisterns clean, and though we lack that magic touch we will not be wanting always with all the new Tevinter blood. Let us build the future!"

"And my airhead husband can also do that, at the drop of a hat," Kalli muttered, "which I'd like to see the lot of you manage."

"Just because he can string some pretty words together doesn't mean they're the right words," Ineria grumbled. She threw up her arms. "But fine. What I say clearly doesn't matter. I pray Mythal watches over us, because I don't want to one day be standing over the ruins of this new 'home', saying that I'd warned you." She stormed off, away from the crowd and towards her aravel.

The child on Theron's shoulders applauded, and Theron reached up to take her hands, shushing her while trying to keep a straight face. "It won't come to that," he assured the crowd. "Dirthamen and Mythal both guard this place and us in it. This spot was chosen for us, and we will do our gods proud. But first..." He pulled the child off his shoulders and set her on the ground, nudging her towards Kalli. "I need to talk to the Alienage's craftsmen."

* * *

* * *

"You wanted to see me, Commander?" Carver asked, stepping into the room and closing the door.

It was a slow day. They'd really all been slow days, since the Circle had opened up. Most of the time, there were a few templars in the tower, and the rest were hanging around the new clinic or the Gallows market, or serving as escorts for groups of mages working on various projects in the city. Carver had spent most of his recent months training new recruits, with Samson's help, and reading Cullen's heavy histories of the Order. It was up to the Knight-Vigilant to interpret Chantry law and instruct the Order in which parts to follow, but Cullen had an eye for sending some very interesting clarification requests, and Carver and Keran were checking the validity of the assumptions.

"It's about Merrill," Cullen groaned, leaning back in his chair to stare at the ceiling as he rubbed the back of his neck. "You know I'm quite fond of her. Saving my life tends to have that effect. But, the fact remains that she's a blood mage, and I-- I _can't_ let that go. I'd be critically remiss in my duties, especially now that she's a noblewoman."

"But, the Circle isn't taking prisoners, any more," Carver pointed out, squaring his shoulders. "Unless you're going back on your word, Commander, and I didn't take you for the sort."

"No, no. I don't want to-- to lock her up! I'm proposing a compromise." Cullen sat up again, holding up his hands. "What if we just take a phylactery. It's simply a preventative measure. In the event anything goes horribly wrong -- if one of the demons she's hunting gets the better of her, somehow -- we'd at least be able to find her and stop her. If nothing bad happens, it just sits in a drawer, and we pretend it's not there. But, she is using _blood magic_ , Carver, and whatever she's using it for, it's traditionally associated with demons and abominations and hideously deformed Tevinter magisters. I can't afford to be caught flat-footed, here, whatever I think of her, personally. And I do know she promised not to do it again, but in the world we live in, it doesn't carry any weight." Really, he disapproved a lot more thoroughly, but he was trying to be as tactful as possible, while still protecting the city. Pissing off Carver was not going to improve the situation.

Yet, for all his tact, Carver still looked moderately pissed off. "You want to take her phylactery?" he said, arms folding across his chest. "You want to take a sample of her blood so that you can use it to magically track her should something go wrong? Because she's a blood mage?"

"That is the idea, yes," Cullen replied, eyeing Carver warily.

"Am I the only one who sees the irony in that?" Carver addressed the room as much as Cullen, even though they were the only two present. "Using blood magic to rein in a blood mage?"

Cullen straightened in his seat. "That's not what --"

"Then what would you call it? It's blood magic, Commander, and that makes you a hypocrite."

Cullen squared his jaw, felt a headache pressing at his temples. "Carver, so help me, I'm _trying_ to find a compromise! Most commanders would have had her made Tranquil or killed, and not just commanders like Meredith. I don't want that to happen, nor do I think it should. But where there's blood magic, there's demons, and we need to be prepared for that."

"It's Kirkwall, Commander; there are _always_ demons." Carver squared his jaw right back at Cullen.

"And that isn't helping your argument. I know there are always demons. That's the point. We have, as we have had for centuries, a higher rate of abominations in Kirkwall than anywhere in Thedas, and it's at least partially because this is Kirkwall -- and I was down there with you, so I know this isn't just rumour. I know what we fought down there. And if your girlfriend is practising magic that makes things like that more likely to try to get to her, I'd think you'd want to protect _her_ , too." Cullen rubbed his face, reached for his cup, and set it down again, upon realising it was empty.

"Protect her? How does this protect her? It makes her a target!" Carver shouted, throwing his arms out in exasperation.

"She spends a lot of time alone, Carver. And that's no one's fault. That's -- most people do. But, wouldn't you like to be able to find her, if there's a chance the demons came for her? Because they will, Carver. They just will. I don't know why -- ask around, some of the mages have probably read the latest theories -- but, if this is a magic she uses -- if she's using blood in her magic -- they _are_ going to come looking for her, and I really doubt they're necessarily going to stop at 'tempting'." Cullen sighed and looked through his desk drawers, hoping for something to take the edge off, before this headache got any worse. "I know what they did to me, and if she's attracting them, she's in danger." She would also be putting everyone near her in danger, but that wasn't really going to be a selling point, with Carver. "If you can find her, you can help her. You've fought demons with her, before. But, I don't know if I've ever heard of anyone winning alone, and definitely not after those things ... get into your head."

"She knows what she's doing," Carver insisted. For all that he was a smart lad, he could be mulishly stubborn, but there was the barest shift in his expression, a widening of the eyes that told Cullen that some of his words had landed.

"There's such a thing as being too confident, particularly when demons are involved," Cullen said and -- ah. Anton had left that bottle of whiskey here. Perfect. "The fact that you both are so sure worries me as much as anything. And yes, the phylacteries are technically blood magic, but it's one, heavily supervised spell. It will be kept here, under _our_ protection. No one is going to touch it or her without my and your express permission. It's not like I'll be shipping it off to Orlais or something. It's to keep her safe."

Carver pursed his lips. Not convinced, not yet, but Cullen had, at least, planted the idea in his head. "So is that your policy, then? Phylacteries for blood mages, even if they're not in your Circle? What about the other mages? Are we going to keep making their phylacteries 'just in case'?"

"I don't even know what's happened to all the ones we had," Cullen sighed, sloshing whiskey into his cup. "In all the mayhem... Some of them are gone, some of them are broken. I can't tell the difference between those. There was a river of blood in the vault. I've made no move to inventory them or replace them." He paused. "I'm ... not even sure if we can. There was a team that handled that, and I think most of them left. More than that, I think Meredith actually had several of them executed as blood mages. So, to be entirely honest, any talk of phylacteries is still extremely theoretical. It was just the best answer I had to something that's very likely to become a problem for us _and_ for her, if we don't address it. The Divine nearly ordered an Exalted March on this city, Carver. I'd like to avoid that, and if it comes out that there's a completely unregulated blood mage serving on the noble council of the city, we're all going to die. The rest of it... the rest of it we can probably fudge for a while. Damage to the vault. Indexes destroyed. We're ... 'working on it'. We've got bigger problem than Loyalists and Aequitarians whose phylacteries may or may not still exist."

Carver wiped a hand over his face. Just when he thought they had taken care of the important things, more problems arose. "Well, I'm thinking, maybe, it's best to get the whole phylactery business squared away before deciding on Merrill. And do you know what else we should do before deciding on Merrill? _Ask_ Merrill. And talk to the enchanters about the phylacteries. We're supposed to be working with them, aren't we?"

"We are," Cullen agreed wearily. The whiskey burned its way down his throat, but it eased the tension in his forehead. "I simply thought I might run an idea or two past my lieutenant. I _am_ trying to help Merrill. You have to know that."

Carver grunted something that could have been acceptance. That was, at the very least, how Cullen planned to interpret it.

"Please consider what I've said, Carver. For her sake and ours."


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Cassandra have a chat about politics and the Grand Enchanter.

Cassandra knocked on the stone arch of the doorway, as she entered the room. "This is a very nice office, Commander. Unfortunately, if the Grand Enchanter has her way, you may no longer have it."

The quill snapped in Cullen's hand, dribbling ink onto the letter he'd been failing to write, and he reached for the cup of whiskey he'd been slowly working his way down, for the last three hours. "Has the Grand Enchanter got something against the way we do things, in Kirkwall, or is this a personal problem?"

"Oh, neither." Cassandra took in the décor and studied the titles of the books along one wall. "But, she is striving to remove the Circles from templar control. As if such a thing could be accomplished with a simple vote."

"I'd heard she might be trying something to that effect. But, how is that so different to what we've achieved, here?" Cullen pitched the quill into the bin and wadded up the drippy remains of the letter to follow it. "We're magical guardsmen. There's been no demonstrated need to keep mages imprisoned. It makes them that much more likely to call upon demons, just to go to the corner store. Like this, they live like anyone else. And then we go solve any problems caused by mages or magic, just like you'd call the guard to deal with a mugger or a killer."

Cassandra made a sound of acknowledgement in the back of her throat, a sound that reminded Cullen of Carver, and Cullen really didn't need to talk to another Carver today. She picked up a book sticking out of Cullen's shelf and inspected its cover. "Then perhaps you have more in common with the Grand Enchanter than I had been led to believe. That is a very controversial view, Knight-Commander, and I would be careful with it. Word is spreading of what happened here, and between the rebellion here and the vote Grand Enchanter Fiona requests, the Order is on edge."

"I fail to see how a vote is a bad idea," Cullen said, watching as she replaced the book and picked up another one. He spied the cover and blushed up to his hairline. Maker. He knew better than to leave that Orlesian trash out in the open. "It, er... It's best to see what can be solved peacefully. If word of what happened here has spread, then maybe others in the Order will understand how needless that violence was."

As he spoke, Cassandra thumbed through the book, her expression carefully neutral, except for one arched eyebrow. "And if peaceful measures don't work? I'm afraid that, in times like this, they so rarely do."

"They certainly didn't work, here," Cullen pointed out, looking even tireder than he had. Maker's breath, this job had aged him a decade in the last few months. "I had a friend -- I suppose I can call him that -- who tried for years to solve things with letters and pamphlets. On the other hand, here, we had Meredith's ... unfortunate intersection with that strange red lyrium. It was like it took her fears and made her believe they were real. It was almost like she was possessed by a demon. I hope things are smoother in places that aren't dealing with her like."

"Centuries of tradition are nearly as forceful as demons, in their way, and sometimes even more so. These things have always been the way. How can you be sure they are not still right?" Cassandra gestured with the book.

"Because this hasn't always been the way. This is the way, because Emperor Drakon of Orlais was trying to save the mages from the cultists hunting them. He brought both sides into the Chantry, told them they each had a place. But, what have we done with that place? We were meant to watch over the mages -- to protect them and everyone else from demons and evil intent. Now we're watching the mages -- more than just watching them! We're taking them as children, raising them as if they're not even human, and then punishing them for not acting like people. Even in Kinloch Hold, I saw things that should never have happened." Cullen choked and pressed a palm to his forehead as the headache he'd been ignoring flared at the memories. "I watched a man with no hope presented with a demon, and he turned it away. It killed three templars, and it could have freed him from that cell, but he didn't take what it was offering. He was much too upset about what it had done to his cat. The demons came for me, too, Seeker. I know how hard that choice was. And I think we need to provide an environment where it's less tempting to accept a demon's offer. Where, unless you've got delusions of grandeur, there's not a lot they can offer."

"People always want something, no matter their circumstances," Cassandra replied. "It is in their nature. And mages are people, as you have been working hard to remind this city. I admire you, Cullen. You believe in what you say, and you're trying to make a difference. I don't know if I agree with your position, but I admire that you're doing something about it instead of pontificating. Thedas needs more men and women of action."

"Oh. I... thank you." Cullen blinked. Looking at her over his drink, it occurred to Cullen that she was sizing him up, and in a wave of panic, he remembered what Anton had told him about her. "Please don't ask me to lead the Inquisition," he blurted, before realising how presumptuous that was. He clapped a hand over his mouth. Maybe it was time to stop with the whiskey.

Up went that judgemental eyebrow again, but Cassandra didn't look surprised. "The thought occurred to me for a moment," she admitted, "but you are needed here. Moreover, I... suspect a templar leading the Inquisition would rather defeat the purpose, no matter how sympathetic he is to mages."

Cullen cleared his throat and dropped his hand, trying to regain some of his dignity. "All very true."

"Now, if I tell you something, Ser Cullen," Cassandra said as she approached the desk, the book still clasped in front of her, "do you swear on your life to keep it between us?"

Her stare was sharp, and Cullen nodded, swallowing.

"This book is dreadful. You are better off with the sequel, which picks up with Adelaide's daughter. It's a bit slow at the start, but the writer really finds her stride in the fourth chapter."


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric tries to write about elves. Learning about elven culture from Theron and Kalli might not be the best choice, though.

The Hanged Man was busy, that night. It had been busy most nights, lately, full of people debating whether Baroness Merrill was going to come through with the repairs she'd been promising them. She was only Baroness of the Alienage, but the people of Lowtown noticed when she stood up for them, too. It was her and Lord Dog against the rest of the council, the way they saw it. Not bad, for an elf, really. A lot more elves had started coming to the tavern, too -- sometimes just to drink, and sometimes to pick up little jobs, here and there. Varric knew a lot of their names, and anyone Varric would buy a drink for couldn't be all bad, elves included.

This particular night, though, Varric was watching the door, waiting for someone. "I should've given him a ball of string, like Lady Daisy," he joked to Edwina, ordering another bowl of nuts and jerky.

"Your friend get lost easily?" Edwina asked, remembering all the times Merrill had wandered in three or four times in a night, asking for directions to the exact same place.

"He's Dalish. I don't know how good he is at cities. Seems to find Hightown easily enough, but down here, the streets are a little less broad and straight." Varric shook his head. "I'm sure he'll find it. It's not like you can really miss the place. It's got dildoes on the roof."

"Dalish? Aren't you worried about him wandering around down here?" Edwina looked surprised.

"Nah, not this guy. He'll kick your ass while singing a jaunty song about it. He went up against a demon and came out singing -- or that's the story I've heard. I've heard the song, too." Varric laughed and washed down some more jerky with his beer.

Varric looked up when the door kicked open, finally spotting what looked like the right elf. Or he assumed it was the right elf, as he was walking backwards into the bar. Varric shook his head in despair.

"Is that your elf?" Edwina asked around a laugh. And then a second elf appeared, dark-haired and scowling, and they both realised Theron was walking backwards to talk to her.

"So, what exotic and intriguing drink should I order, vhenan?" Theron asked Kalli. "Surely there must be something I haven't tried!"

"What you should try is walking forwards, idiot, before you--" Theron bumped into a table, ass first, and Kalli sighed. "Before you do that."

Theron turned the stumble into a spin and finally turned, spotting Varric in his corner. With a cheery wave, Theron bounded over. "It is good to see you again, my short and fuzzy friend!" he said, slipping into the seat across from Varric.

"Forgive my husband," Kalli drawled, picking the seat next to Theron. "He tends to find cities a bit, er... overstimulating."

"On the contrary! I find them just the right amount of stimulating, especially this one."

"Especially this one? I recall you having a lot of words to that effect about Denerim, too. And Highever," Kalli rolled her eyes and smiled as politely as she could manage at Edwina. "Rum, for me, and whatever you have that's sweet and light, for him. He likes fruit." She paused, and Varric took the bait.

"He _is_ a fruit."

"I've always heard I'm quite delicious," Theron retorted with a wicked smile. "Maybe you should try a taste, before you get judgemental about my fruity excellence."

Edwina sputtered into a loud laugh, catching the attention of half the room. "His drink's on me. That's the best line I've heard all week."

"So, what did you want me for, Varric, if not my fruity excellence?" Theron asked, nicking a handful of nuts and jerky. "Unless you were interested in that, in which case Kalli gets to watch."

"Never been much of a fan of fruit, sorry," Varric replied with a crooked grin. "Or horseradish either, if Anton asks. I'm more of a meat and potatoes kind of guy, in a purely non-euphemistic sense."

Theron tilted his head, gaze wandering in a way that said he was trying to think up a euphemism anyway.

"Anyway, I heard some rumours about you guys up on Sundermount," Varric went back, sitting back in his chair and resting his ankle on the opposite knee. "Planning to stick around, eh? A bit crazy, if you ask me, what with the demons and the dragons and the other demons. And the other dragons. But we'd be lucky to have you as a neighbour."

"'Rumours'," Kalli harrumphed. "As if we don't know who told you."

"A little birdy told me," Varric answered with a wink.

"I wouldn't call a Hawke little," she drawled.

Varric grinned and turned back to Theron. "Anyway, to answer your question, since we're going to be neighbours and all, I thought I could try to help. There are going to be grumblings here about you setting up permanently, especially with all the pro-elf politics coming down the pike. You have to know that. Doesn't mean you should listen, but you can't ignore it either."

Theron's smile dimmed a little at that, but he nodded. Edwina returned with their drinks and a fresh round for Varric, and Theron thanked her politely before pausing to sniff what she's brought him. "I understand that," he said. "No, actually, I don't understand that. I know I -- we -- need to watch out for it, but I doubt I will ever understand the reasoning."

"The Dales, you idiot," Kalli filled in. "They're still pissed about the Dales."

"Excuse me? _They're_ pissed about the Dales?" Theron looked utterly dumbstruck, which didn't mean his mouth had stopped moving, for all that it stopped producing coherent sounds.

"While the lot of you have been spouting grand ideas and measuring things, Fenris has been talking to me about Shartan. I guess his sister bought him a book and then he started doing research. The man wrote a whole book. There's a part of the chant that tells his story, but they docked his ears, in Val Royeaux. Typical shem bullshit, and it was all over the Dales. They won the fight, and then they erased the elves from as much as they could. Never could quite remove the Dales from history, though. But, they say we started it. So, they're still pissed we almost won."

"That's completely stupid. Lindiriane must be rolling over in her tomb, right about now." Theron paused. "I've been there, you know. Her tomb. Well, what they say is her tomb, anyway. There's so many tombs in the Emerald Graves, and not just the trees. I'll take you there, one day. It's beautiful."

"Not to bury me, I hope, unless it's ashes." Kalli kicked Theron a bit under the table. "It sounds horrible, you know. I'm sure it's pretty, but I'm also sure it's full of demons."

"Not everything old is full of demons!" Theron protested. At Kalli's flat look, he wavered, shrugged, and added, "Okay, yes, most old things are full of demons. Particularly old things full of corpses. But that's just in _our_ experience!"

"Mine too," Varric grumbled into his drink.

"But still, that's..." Theron shook his head, and Varric half expected his ears to droop in tandem with his shoulders. They twitched a bit but weren't anywhere near as expressive as Fenris's. Varric wondered if that was just a Broody thing. "That seems a bit silly. And a lot unfair."

"That's life, Fruity," Varric sighed. He tapped Theron's cup with his own. "A bit silly and a lot unfair."

Kalli snickered into her rum. "Fruity. That nickname will stick."

Theron shrugged. "I've been called worse things. Some of them by you! Most of them by Tamlen. What do you call her?"

"Nuts."

Theron nodded. "That seems about right."

Kalli punched his arm. "Hey!"

"Ow! You married me, didn't you? If that doesn't make you nuts, what does?" 

Kalli punched him again for good measure. He winced but kept on grinning.

"So, tell me about this village you've got going," Varric said, leaning back and opening his notebook. "How's that coming along? How's it going to affect us, down here?"

"How's it going to affect you? Well, you're going to get a lot more Dalish goods in. A lot of this is a trade decision. We've been here for almost a decade, and we haven't had too many problems, except with the templars. And that wasn't even about us. They just marched through our camp, took what they wanted, and killed the shem camp we'd been trading with, in the caverns. Bunch of assholes, if you ask me. Ser Carver tried to straighten that out for us." Theron shook his head.

"We're also settling down because we've adopted a bunch of children from Tevinter -- slave kids. They got sent down with that group that works for you, Varric. But, most of them didn't come with their parents, for some reason, so they ended up with us. We're always happy to take on more elves. This, though... There's an awful lot of them. It's easier to raise them right if we just stay put," Kalli explained, pouring herself another couple fingers of rum. "I'm from Denerim, you know? So was my friend Pol. Of course he had an unfortunate accident with a varterral, but the clan never really treated us much different to anyone else, except the assumption that we didn't know what we were doing, which was pretty accurate, for a few years. But, these kids, they'll grow up in both places. They'll get city stories and Dalish stories. Maybe if we get lucky, maybe if Kirkwall survives Anton, we'll finally settle out. I mean, I'm going to be an old lady, one day. I can't be out here stabbing shems all the time, if I'm old! We've got to come to some kind of an arrangement, before then."

Theron chuckled until he spotted the movement of Varric's hand, a quill moving over parchment. He hadn't paid much attention to the materials, had assumed Varric had been working to pass the time, but now his writing was deliberate. "Are you... taking notes? Or potentially drawing an unflattering caricature of my wife? If it's the second option, I'll pay you for it."

Tipping her drink back, Kalli half-heartedly punched him in the arm again.

"I could do both," Varric offered, quill still moving. "And yes, I'm taking notes." He paused to finish a word before setting down his quill and folding his hands on the table. "Like I said, I want to help. It's easier for people to hate an idea than one person. Generally speaking, anyway. It's easier for the Orlesians to bitch if they can think of your clan as a faceless mob. The people of Kirkwall already have one face to put to your clan, and that's Merrill's. It helps, but two more faces would help even more."

Theron blinked. "And you... plan to achieve this with an unflattering caricature of my wife?" He didn't try to dodge the punch in his arm when it came.

"That... wasn't the original plan, no, but now I'm intrigued." Varric scratched his chin, stubble rasping against his fingers, and looked for all the world as though he were genuinely considering it. "But no, I was thinking a story in the Gazette. An interview with a young Dalish couple with a full family and hearts of gold."

The snort Kalli made into her cup could be heard across the bar.

"Certainly more gold in our hearts than our pockets." Theron laughed, until Kalli slapped the back of his head.

"It's because you keep spending it on frilly shem underthings!"

"I like them! They make me look dashing!" Theron huffed, eyeing Varric. "I'll bet you wear nice things, too!"

"As opposed to what I'm wearing now?" Varric lifted an eyebrow. "I might not dress to my station, but I'd like to think I dress nicely."

"He's asking if you're wearing frilly smalls." Kalli rolled her eyes. "And for the record, I'm not. They're flimsy and they get caught on things, like my knives and the rivets in my leathers. It's just not practical."


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theron and Kalli continue to explain elven culture to Varric. And then someone gets punched in the face. Several someones.

Varric seized the opportunity to change the subject. "So, practicality's a big thing for you? Tell me about that."

"Practicality's a big thing for any elf," Kalli corrected. "Except this great gasbag I married, and even he's got more sense than your average shem. In the cities, we're bait, like the rabbits and nugs they keep to train the mabari. Only those bunnies eat better. Everything we could have, someone else is declared to have more of a right to. In Denerim, the shems told us there was a plague, locked the lot of us in the alienage, and let Tevinter come take their pick of us. Whoever said the South doesn't do slavery was lying." She reached for a strip of jerky. "So, you learn to look at any shem as a threat, and you only invest in the most necessary things -- and you invest often. They're less likely to steal your turnips than your money. You dress for work -- things you can get blood off of, things they'll have trouble grabbing onto, things that'll deflect a drunken knife."

"I was at her first wedding," Theron pointed out. "It's all true. Of course, a wedding's a big deal, so she had a fancy dress, and damned if the shem didn't come to take it off her. Don't think it was the dress they wanted. Hardly matters. They're all dead and nobody could get the blood out of that thing. Such a waste."

"I liked that dress," Kalli said, mouth full of jerky and her stare far away. "It was ridiculous. Sleeves like fucking curtains, hanging off my arms." She held up one arm and gestured in the air beneath it. "They kept getting tangled. It was a pain in the ass."

"You looked gorgeous though, vhenan," Theron said, eyes sparkling. "Like the gods had plucked a star from the heavens and set it on the earth to dazzle us mere mortals."

"Don't start," Kalli grumbled, adding a sigh that only sounded agitated. 

"And then you pulled out a knife and started stabbing, and I've been terrified and in love ever since."

"Sounds like quite the love story," Varric said, adding a few words to his notes. "Like something of an Orlesian romance, except he's the one doing the swooning."

Kalli shook her head and simply responded, "No. Yes, he swooned. No to Orlesian anything. Theron's bosoms don't heave enough for that." She stole another piece of jerky out from under Varric's fingers. "Forgot I was hungry until I'd started eating." She threw a speculative look over her shoulder at the bar. "How's the stew here?"

"It's generally safe to put in your mouth," Varric assured her. "I'd probably suggest going the bread and meat route, though. The roast is always better than the stew. Stew's... it's really not bad, but it's really not that exciting."

"Stew's almost never exciting. It's stew," Theron pointed out. "And no to Orlesian anything, with or without heaving bosoms. Orlesians. Just as bad as Tevinter, but even less tolerant."

"Don't get him started on Orlais." Kalli warned, standing up. "I'm going to go figure out what's slightly more exciting than stew. Do you want anything?"

"Cheese and beer," Theron said, snagging another handful of nuts. "And a bowl of those mixed pickles. Kirkwall has the best pickles."

"Do the Dalish even have pickles?" Varric asked, as Kalli made her way toward the bar.

"Of course we have pickles. What the fuck kind of question is that?" Theron laughed and spit shells into his hand. "We just make them differently. More salt, less vinegar. Lots more spice. But, you guys have sweet pickles. And there's another upside to settling down. Do you know how difficult it is to make good wine or hard cheese, if you're travelling?"

"Well, I can't say I've tried," Varric said, "but my imagination's pretty good. Speaking of settling down, how's the building going?"

"A bit slow." Theron shrugged one shoulder. "There's so much measuring and checking and measuring again, making modifications to the plan and doing the whole thing over. I did not realise buildings took so much work. I have patience for a gaggle of elflets but not for that."

"That also might just because you're working with Artie," Varric pointed out. "You know how he is."

"Oh, do I ever."

Varric wasn't going to ask about the way Theron waggled his eyebrows. He didn't need to know. He didn't want to know.

"But, I know it will be lovely," Theron said between licking bits of nuts from his teeth. "The Alienage is... It's no longer a slums. It's a monument, and..." Theron trailed off when he noticed Varric's attention was elsewhere, particularly on whatever was happening past his shoulder.

With his back to the bar, Theron couldn't see his wife, but he could hear the meaty sound of a fist meeting skin and then Kalli's voice. "I ordered meat, not a meat _head_ ," she snapped.

"You going to go help her out?" Varric asked, when Theron didn't move but to turn in his chair for a better view.

"Varric, I married the Bane of Denerim. I'm not getting in the middle of that." Theron laughed and then called out, "Do you need another set of hands, vhenan?"

"I didn't marry you for your fists, Theron," Kalli shouted, ramming her own fist into another unfortunate drunk's nose.

"No, you married me for my sword!"

"I _will_ come over there and hit you," Kalli warned, "but, after I'm done with this shem trash. I'll even wipe off my hand first."

"You see that?" Theron asked Varric, loudly enough for most of the room to hear. "She loves me. She'll even wipe the shem-shit off her hands before she decks me for my all-too-accurate commentary."

"You're really not--?" Varric stopped as Kalli's fist was followed by her knee, and a drunken sailor sprawled, bloody, across the floor. "Nah, I guess you're right. She's got a mean left hook!" He took another swig of beer and sketched out a quick plan for a sidebar of the fight. "So, tell me what you're building up there? Just houses, or have you got some plans for public works?"

"We've set aside a few buildings for that, yes," Theron replied. He checked his cup, shaking the last few drops together to see if it was really empty. "The biggest is a school. Or it will be. For teaching crafts and language and history. A proper building where we might even keep books!"

Varric smiled at Theron's enthusiasm, only to wince at the heavy sound of a head meeting the bar. He looked up to make sure that head hadn't been Kalli's and spotted her near the unconscious drunk, snarling and brandishing a stool over her head. The stool had already taken a beating, one leg snapped and hanging by a few splinters.

Theron glanced back at the bar, but Corff was nowhere to be found. He would have to wait for Kalli to finish before he could get his beer.

"Right." Varric finished the word he'd paused in the middle of writing, ink pooling on the page. "By language, I assume you mean or include Elvish in that. Keeping the traditions alive, eh? Speaking of, what's the clan doing about leadership after Marethari's... debacle?"

"Debacle. That's one word for it." Theron snorted and then jumped at the sound of Kalli's stool smacking into something solid. "A clan isn't led by a keeper, alone. Without Merrill, we don't have anyone qualified to be the new keeper, yet, but we do still have most of our elders, and our storytellers. We've got Hahren Paivel in charge, for now, and if anything happens to him, it's me. Hopefully nothing will happen to him."

"Nobody's qualified yet? Are you expecting someone to become qualified? I didn't know that was possible." Varric avoided using the word 'mage'. Even if the Circle had become optional, it didn't seem wise to call attention to the fact that not only were there mages running around, but the Dalish put them in charge.

"Well, some of it is a matter of heritage and some is a matter of learning. With all the children we've inherited from that magister's estate, there's a good chance we'll get a good match. So, it's very important that we're able to teach them everything a keeper should know. Unfortunately, we're a little short on some of those things, so we're probably going to need to borrow the First or Second from another clan, when we're ready to start teaching the hard stuff."

"And another clan's just going to let you walk off with one of their most important members?" Varric asked, over the sound of breaking glass, looking a bit surprised. 

"Probably not. In fact, I'm not sure how many clans will talk to us, at all, since we have no keeper and no halla, but there's an ... event coming up, soon, and it won't hurt to go ask. Worst comes to worst, we'll have to ask Merrill to help. Not that there's anything wrong with the Baroness, but she's a Baroness. Very busy."

"That's our Daisy!" Varric saluted her with his drink before sharply bringing it close to his chest, one hand shielding the top from the hail of splinters as Kalli's stool finally lost its dangling leg. Theron ducked his head and picked out the slivers of wood that had fallen in the nuts. "Though I don't think that's the kind of busy she would mind. She loves her clan and... anything elfy, really, and better off teaching elfy than being elfy on a council of Orlesian shit-mongers."

"Kirkwall has an alarming number of those, doesn't she?" Theron asked, finally picking up a nut once he had deemed the plate clear of debris. "I'd always assumed Orlesian shit-mongers would be in Orlais."

"An easy mistake." 

The sounds of fighting had died down enough for Varric to hear Theron's crunching. Finally, the brawl had ended, and behind Theron, Kalli stood over a sea of slumped bodies, the firewood that had once been a stool still dangling from one hand. She wiped a bit of blood from her nose and leaned over the bar. "How's the pot roast coming?" she asked what Varric assumed was a cowering Corff.

"Can I get extra pickles, if I drag the bleeding pile of idiot shemlen outside for you?" Theron called across the room, and some coughing and cackling erupted from a table of dwarves by the fire.

"I'll buy you a whole nother bowl of pickles if you can actually pick any of them up!" one of the dwarves called over.

Varric groaned, still brushing splinters off the table. "Don't encourage him, Astyth."

"I'll have you know I take my encouragement where I can get it, including gifts of sweet pickles from delightful dwarven women," Theron retorted, winking at the dwarf and her companion, as he heaved the first bulky shemlen across his shoulders and made for the door.

A piercing whistle of amazement cut through the room. "Ancestors," Astyth's companion swore. "Are you sure that's really an elf, Varric?"

"Going by the ears, my answer's still yes," Varric said, plucking a splinter out of his jacket cuff. "You haven't met Fenris, have you? I'll try to introduce you the next time he's around. He could pick you two up, one under each arm, and if I get him drunk enough he might try."

"Are you implying I can't?" Theron called back, voice muffled by the shem's leg next to his face. "You wound me, Varric."

"I said no such thing," Varric called after him, his words lost in the swing of the door as Theron dropped off his cargo outside. "I was simply making the point not to mess with an elf."

Returning, Theron pointed at Kalli. "She already made that point," he said, bending to pick up the next shem.

Kalli set her pot roast down on the table and slid back into her chair, bloodied but satisfied. "Damn right."


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver has an opinion. Several of them, actually. Fenris and Artemis attempt to sympathise.

"Maker, you really are a noble, aren't you?" Carver muttered, taking in the elegance of his brother's dining room. He hadn't been in Artemis's house much, if only because the house seemed like a fixture to keep Artie out of everyone else's shit. Oddly, that didn't seem to have worked, given the way Anton still shouted about not being able to find things.

"You're just now noticing this?" Fenris asked, clearly amused. "I'd have thought the wedding might have been a clue, if your mother wasn't."

"Mum's different. She was always like that. And that house is just another piece in whatever game Anton's playing." Carver picked up a fork and studied it. "But, this... you guys made this. You chose this. And you really put it on, too." He displayed the handle of the fork, pointedly. "They've got flowers on them. That's hardly utilitarian design. That's some ... fruity noble shit."

"Carver, I could throw you through this wall without lifting a finger," Artemis reminded him. "Don't make fun of my cutlery."

Carver set down the fork with a huff. "I'm just making a statement. 'You have fruity forks'. See? Statement."

"Of course they're fruity! That's a salad fork!"

"A salad...? What the fuck is the difference anyway?"

"Size," Fenris pointed out, holding up one of each fork. "It is the dwarf of forks."

"Great," Carver muttered at his plate. "I'm eating salad with a fruity dwarf fork."

"You used to eat with your toes when you were two," Artie drawled. "I think you'll manage."

Not quite hiding a chuckle, Orana dished out their salads. "If Messere prefers," she said to Carver as she set down his plate, "there is other silverware. The handles of the forks are made to look like bird feathers."

Carver looked ill. "That's almost worse."

"By which my rude brother means 'no, thank you'," Artemis said. 

"Well, at least our rudest brother finally left town," Carver grumbled, reaching for a little bowl of dressing. "You seem to be doing better, without him around. Alienage looks great."

Fenris subtly changed his grip on his fork, watching both brothers in his periphery.

"Natia is very talented," Artemis said, stiffly polite as he pushed the olives around on his plate until they formed their own cluster off to the side. "And just because there is a table between us, Carver, does not mean I will hesitate to punch you. Again."

"I still don't understand why you keep defending him," Carver huffed, cramming a large forkful of leafy greens into his mouth. "'S not why 'm here. 'S Merrill. Cullen." He finally swallowed. "Phylactery."

"Phylactery?" Fenris asked. "I know that's a mage thing, but no one has explained it. I know Anders was rather upset about them, but you know how hard it is to ask him anything, once he gets started."

"It's blood magic," Carver mumbled around another mouthful of salad. "They take the blood of the mages and turn it into like... a tracking thing. Right, so, you know how a lodestone will always show you north? A phylactery will always show you the mage it came from."

"Those aren't just for mages," Fenris pointed out. "How do you think Danarius kept finding me? I destroyed the ones I could find on his hunters, but there was always another."

Artemis chewed on his salad as he considered. He supposed that made a certain amount of sense, but he'd never thought of Danarius's magic as being the same thing. "I used to think it _was_ just for mages," he said, spearing a few leaves of lettuce onto his fruity dwarf fork, "until that asshole, Du Puis. Gascard?" He continued moving his food around instead of eating it for the moment, his stomach twisting at that memory of their mother. "Something Orlesian, anyway. That's how he kept track of those... women."

"Ugh, don't bring up that pissmonger while I'm eating," Carver groused, mouth full of half-chewed greens.

"So, if you're bringing up phylacteries, Merrill, and Cullen all at once," Fenris said, ignoring the gross way Carver chewed, "should I assume one has made a suggestion about the other two?"

Artie's brows lifted, but he looked less than surprised. "Ah. Cullen saw her using blood magic. Of course. He can't just let that slide."

"It's stupid," Carver insisted. "She's not summoning demons with it."

"It almost never starts with summoning demons, but it almost always ends there," Fenris muttered. "You know, blood magic is forbidden, even in Tevinter. Doesn't seem to stop anyone from using it."

"Why is it always demons?" Carver barked, slamming a hand down on the table hard enough that his wine licked at the edge of the glass. "She's not summoning them! She's destroying them!"

"And what happens if she summons one accidentally?" Fenris asked, spearing one of the olives from the edge of Artemis's plate without even looking. "The blood calls them. It tempts them." He paused. "I didn't pay much mind to the magic at home. It was all the same -- magisters finding new ways to protect themselves and kill each other. And torment their slaves. But, I remember there was a line, when it came to blood magic. If you were using your own, it was acceptable, and no one felt the need to comment, but if you were using someone else's -- which everyone did anyway -- it was always behind closed doors. The Magisterium might be convinced to set the templars on someone using unapproved blood magic. Except they didn't, always. I don't know. It wasn't my concern. And I came to understand most of the accusations were lies, anyway. But, everyone was very clear that more blood meant more power, and it also meant stronger demons. And the only way to get more blood was to use someone else's. A lot of someones." He gestured broadly. "Kirkwall is proof of the point."

"How many years have you known her, and you still think so little of her?" Carver snapped. "When has she ever used blood magic except to help, and when has she ever used blood that wasn't _hers_? She's not a magister! She almost bled out in the battle with Meredith, which we would never have won without her! And this is how the Order repays her? This is _bullshit_!" He punctuated this shout with another slam of his fist, and Artie held his breath as he watched the wine in Carver's glass slosh against the sides. "Artie, you're a mage! Back me up, here."

Artemis took his time answering, pausing to take a sip of water. "Oh? Suddenly now you're interested in my magey opinion? Are you sure you don't want to find Cormac and ask him, since according to you he controls all my thoughts and actions?" Artie's smile was brittle. It was spiteful, sure, but he was running low on patience. "And you don't need to summon demons for them to come for you, Carver. You weren't in the Fade with us. You don't know what it was like."

"This isn't even about demons! This is about my fiancée getting some life-long tracker attached to her! You've seen what the Order is capable of!" Carver jabbed his fork at his brother. "Really, if it was just Cullen, I probably wouldn't care, but it's not. Any of those phylacteries can be called for by the Chantry or the Knight-Vigilant. And what if Cullen gets assassinated? I mean, we're not exactly toeing the line, here. Kirkwall's an experiment. I'm not even sure Val Royeaux is going to tolerate what we're trying to do, here. And if I have to run, she's coming with me, and I don't want assholes in platemail up my ass, when I do it!"

Fenris cleared his throat and gestured at Artemis.

"And I don't want assholes in platemail up my brother's ass, either!" Carver shouted.

"A little late for that, don't you think?" Fenris's eyebrows lifted ever-so-slightly. "One of your brothers is married to one of those assholes in platemail."

Artemis bit his tongue to keep from saying the quip that popped into his head, one he was sure would traumatise Carver even further. "Carver, I get your concerns, and you know what? I suspect Cullen's already agonised over all of them, even before you chewed him out. Which I have no doubt you did when he asked." Artie wiped a hand over his face and set down his fork. "Not that I blame you. If she were my fiancée, I'd fight it too."

"If she were your fiancée, I'd have a few questions," Fenris drawled. Artemis kicked him, and Fenris cackled, his foot pinning Artemis's to the floor.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "My older brother married murderous demon bait," or the trials of Carver Hawke.

"However," Artie went on, "Cullen is Knight-Commander, and there are some precautions he has to take. He's likely pissing off the Chantry as it is. The last thing he needs, the last thing _Kirkwall_ needs, is for it to get back to the wrong person that there's a blood mage living here that Cullen knows about and did nothing about. And, frankly, it's not his fault that Merrill chose to pursue blood magic."

"And it's not dad's fault you throw people into trees! I have no idea what _fault_ even matters, here." Carver moved his elbow as Orana set a bowl of soup beside him. "Thanks."

"Messere is advised to avoid pounding the table until after the soup course. Messere getting thrown into trees could be his own fault." Orana winked and moved around the table to serve Fenris and Artemis.

"I ..." Carver cleared his throat. "Of course." He had no idea why, but Orana always had that effect on him. Fumbling with his napkin, he tried to find the rest of the point he'd been making. "So, you think she should do it? You think she should submit to someone else's blood magic, using her blood, because she does magic with her own blood?"

Fenris's lips tensed and Orana patted his shoulder. "I do. And I think you need to keep track of it. And if the time comes that you have to go, _take it_. Let them feel safe, but don't forget you can still protect yourself and her."

"I'm going to have to agree with my brilliant and gorgeous husband, here," Artemis said. "If something goes wrong and you need to get her phylactery, I will help you. I'll also help you destroy it, if that's what it comes down to. But in the meantime, it's Cullen. I trust him, far more than I've trusted any other templar."

Carver cleared his throat and spread his hands.

"I stand by what I said," Artie teased.

"Ass," Carver grumbled, taking a roll from the basket Orana set on the table. After taking a bite, he tore off a piece and threw it at Artie.

"Carver Hawke, I _will_ throw you through that wall!"

"He will," Fenris assured Carver. "Don't tempt him."

"He won't. He only did that shit to Cormac, because of the shields," Carver scoffed. "He'll throw me through that open doorway."

"I'll throw you through that open doorway into another wall," Artie replied, his soup spoon pointed at Carver. "I wouldn't throw you through into a wall without _warning_ you. And now you have been warned."

"Double ass. That's great, of two brothers left in Kirkwall, I've got Lord Dog and Lord Ass," Carver huffed, washing a bit of bread down with a swig of wine.

"Lord Ass, hmm?" Fenris purred, eyeing Artemis. "Perhaps, but in so many ways I shouldn't share with that lord's younger brother."

Carver froze and then lobbed the rest of the roll at Fenris's head. "Oh, that's gross! Don't talk about my brother like that! Oh, come on!"

Fenris opened his mouth, took a long look at Carver, and changed the subject. "Demons, then. It's not about Merrill, blood magic, or even mages. Look around you, Carver. How many people has Kirkwall seen possessed, commanded, overtaken by them? Cullen will tell you Merrill's not the only one to be concerned about. I'll tell you the same thing."

"I'm not that worried about demons. These ancient powerful things the magisters summoned just don't hold up to a few spells and a couple of swords." Carver shrugged, starting on his soup. "We've killed demons before. Cullen just got taken by surprise, I think. Poor bastard. Really fucked him up, too."

"You were prepared to face those 'ancient powerful things', and you had a small army with you," Artemis pointed out. "It's when you're not prepared and when you're not worried that you have to be careful. Most demons? They're not interested in a fight. They're not going to come charging at you, claws drawn. They wear you down with words and thoughts and hit you where you're weakest. You saw what happened to Marethari. She cared about Merrill, and the demon twisted that into fear. The demon didn't get to her because she was weak. It got to her because she had something -- in this case, some _one_ \-- to lose."

It was safer, he thought, to use Marethari as an example. He could still see Fenris, that day in the Fade, sword drawn and eyes looking through him. He could still see Cormac beating Fenris into a pulp.

"I'm just going to..." Artie stole a long sip from Fenris's wine glass before setting it down. "Thank you."

"Carver, sit on both your hands," Fenris said, as Orana poured him more wine.

"What?" Carver blinked at Fenris in confusion.

"Do it. If you're going to come across the table, I want it to take you that extra second." The corner of Fenris's mouth tilted up. "Also, take a long look at your brother, who is still alive, and will probably throw you into a wall, if you do it."

"I don't..." Carver looked around, but tucked his hands under his thighs. "You're going to tell me something I don't want to know."

"I am. I'm going to tell you I know what I'm talking about, because I met a demon. I met a demon that convinced me I could destroy the magisterium, and all I had to do was kill your brother. Except it wasn't him, any mo--"

"You _what_?" Carver shouted, leaping to his feet, hands keeping him off balance for just long enough for Orana to pull the bowl of soup out from in front of him, before he bumped into the table.

"Sit down, Carver," Artemis warned, one hand already up with a spell at his fingertips. "I'm alive, aren't I? Alive and married to him. But if it makes you feel better, Cormac beat the absolute snot out of him." Artie smiled to hide how sick that memory still made him. "It's not Fen's fault. The demon just... knew where to hit him."

"It's a little my fault," Fenris said to his soup, "but I would not envy anyone faced with that on a regular basis."

Under the table, Artemis squeezed Fenris's knee, his other hand still held up in a warning. He hoped Carver got the important part of that conversation, but his brother was still glaring murder at his husband.

"So, for all your certainty, I might not be so flippant, if I were you. I might also respect Cormac a bit more. They tempted him, too, and I understand he didn't give in. Neither did Artemis. Neither, frankly, did Anders, but that's a bit of a special case, in which one might say he'd already given in." Fenris cleared his throat and took another bite of soup. "But, Isabela and I were ... less prepared than we thought. It's worth being aware that they're not gentle, and they'll offer you things you've always wanted and never dreamed you could have. Changes to the whole world. And they don't just speak to you. The strong ones get inside your mind, play with what you believe. You can say you'd never trust a demon, but do you trust yourself? When do you stop? Can you make yourself doubt long enough to see what's real? Because I couldn't. I still don't know if I can, if it happened again."

"That's great. My older brother married some murderous demon-bait." Carver huffed.

"Two of your brothers. Don't forget Cullen." Fenris's smile was hollow. "It's Kirkwall. They come for everyone, here. Don't be so sure you know better. Look where that got me."

"Don't tempt fate, Carver, is all we're saying. A bit of humility on the subject of demons is generally wise. Merrill is a part of our family too, and I don't want to see anything happen to either of you." With a pleading look, Artemis finally let go of his spell and bent over his soup again.

Orana waited until Carver sat back in his chair before setting the soup in front of him again. "Does Messere plan to stay in his chair?" she asked politely.

"I... yeah," Carver grumbled. "For the moment."

"If Messere changes his mind before the main course, please let me know."


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seneschal Bran gets a very cranky letter from Starkhaven. Aveline and Cullen attempt to enjoy a business lunch.

8 Wintermarch, 9:38

Seneschal Bran,

I feel it is in all our best interests that I warn you to expect an invasion, this spring. Prince Sebastian is rather intent on bringing his army to bear in the last week of Guardian, when the frost has broken. I keep insisting that mid-Drakonis is a much better idea, if he insists on an invasion, but he actually intends to drive a march through the marshy wetlands in the wake of the frost. I understand that he spent a good deal of his life as a Chantry brother, and may have missed out on some of the finer points, but honestly, the Marches haven't changed that much since he was twelve.

I do, of course, continue to discourage any assault on the city of Kirkwall, not least because he is both incorrect and going to lose that fight. I've been to Kirkwall. I'm very aware of what your people are capable of, and I'd venture nearly any of them would be a more suitable ruler for this half-burnt wreckage of a city. (Dumar couldn't have been this bad. However much the fool he was, he must have had more sense than this.)

I am of the opinion that our focus should be on rebuilding the aforementioned wreckage, as I have told Prince Sebastian often and at great volume. He assures me that once justice has been served, Starkhaven will be made new, grander than it ever was. I have, in turn, informed him that serving justice is best left to the Hawke family, but he failed to see the wisdom of this statement. 

I can only assume the Prince plans to rebuild Starkhaven out of clay, after destroying her largest trading partner, but perhaps it is giving him too much credit to assume he has a plan at all. I have heard that Kirkwall's rebuilding is going much more smoothly and sanely, and it is my deepest regret that I am unable to see it, or perhaps my second deepest regret, next to eating Starkhaven cuisine.

Hoping this letter finds you well and in better spirits than I am,

Nathaniel Howe

* * *

This was not the first letter Bran had received from Warden Howe, nor was it likely to be the last. The man had kept him apprised of the situation in Starkhaven, since Sebastian's threats began. Of course, the letters also kept him apprised of the whims of Starkhaven's nobles, the poor quality of Starkhaven cuisine, and the Warden's waning patience with Starkhaven and its prince. He could hardly argue with the last.

He took a moment to knock off a quick note to Viscount Hawke, before beginning his reply to the latest missive. ' _Starkhaven threatening to invade when the frost clears. Source is extremely reliable. I'll ensure Aveline is prepared, if you deal with the Council_.' Anton wouldn't bring it up, of course, unless the army actually began to march. It was best to keep the nobles from having the time to argue over the best response to something like this, particularly when it might yet pass without incident. They were half likely to suggest invading Starkhaven, first.

11 Wintermarch, 9:38

Warden Howe,

A pleasure, as always. Thank you for your quick notification of the prince's murderous intent. We'll keep an eye out, when things start to warm up. From your descriptions, though, I am left to wonder how it is that Starkhaven is such a popular tourist destination.

As always, your efforts to make the Prince see reason are deeply appreciated, and I understand well your frustration. You will remember our Council of Nobles -- with the deepest fondness I am sure -- and its new members. The Viscount has suggested to me that the council should hold its meetings at a round table, in the future, considering that it is already talking in circles. That said, the Viscount is up to the task and, as you have been informed, the city is slowly recovering.

As for the cuisine, my deepest sympathies. I have been to Starkhaven many times and know its horrors. My wife and I will have to have you over for dinner, the next time you are in Kirkwall (preferably without Starkhaven's army).

Hoping this letter finds you in good health if not in mood,

Seneschal Bran

* * *

* * *

"You know, it's hard to keep calling this the 'Captains' Lunch', now that you're Knight-Commander," Aveline joked, taking a bite of the best pork pasty in all of Kirkwall, as they walked through Lowtown. "I'd have to be getting lunch with Ser Thrask."

Cullen laughed, taking a bite of his own pasty, pork on this end and apples at the other. "At least as Commander, I can actually make it to lunch."

Aveline swallowed and started to smile, before her attention was caught by something across the plaza. "Hey!" she shouted, pointing at a pickpocket, who promptly took off running, only to trip over a broom.

"Thanks, Tyrone," Aveline called out, making her way over to where the owner of the Nevarran restaurant kept hitting the thief with the broom, every time he tried to get up.

"Never off duty, are we, Captain?" Cullen sighed, before stuffing the rest of his pasty into his mouth and getting up to follow. If the thief wasn't a mage, he wasn't his problem, but Cullen always enjoyed watching Aveline put the fear of the Maker into Kirkwall's criminals.

"Guard-Captain," Tyrone greeter her with a curt but respectful nod. The pickpocket groaned, and Tyrone smacked him one more time with the broom.

"Mercy!" the thief whined, but Aveline showed none of it when she picked him up by the collar.

"Mercy? I was having lunch with a friend. And it was a good lunch too. If you want mercy, don't try stealing _right in front of the guard captain_. Or Tyrone."

Tyrone nodded in grim agreement, while Cullen continued to chew.

"Is there no way to keep track of them?" Cullen asked, eyeing the thief, as Aveline chained the man to a decorative rail.

"I'll send a runner," Aveline assured Tyrone. "He'll be picked up soon enough." She looked back at Cullen. "Keep track of them for what? We have logbooks -- we know if they've done things like this before. This one here's a repeat customer. We're not going to be as nice, this time."

"I don't know," Cullen muttered. "It might be nice to be able to find them, if they do get away from you."

"Your mind's still on the mages, isn't it?" Aveline asked, sighing as she spotted the rest of her lunch where she'd dropped it, Lowtown's dogs already on it. "Unfortunately, out here in the real world, we don't have a way to do that."

"Don't we?" Cullen asked. "The phylacteries... the way the Order keeps track of mages... that doesn't _just_ work on mages, you know."

Aveline squinted at him, looking him up and down. "Phylacteries?" she repeated. "You use their blood for that, don't you?"

The thief whimpered, eyes wide. "Blood?"

Both Captain and Commander ignored him. "Yes," Cullen answered, "and it's... Frankly, it's a topic that keeps coming up this week and something we need to address soon. That is, phylacteries in general and what we're going to do with them, not... phylacteries for criminals. Though the more I think about it, the less I hate the idea."

"I don't know," Aveline said, looking askance at the thief as he fiddled with his chains. "That seems a little... Tevinter to me."

"Even if the criminal weren't just a pickpocket? What if he were a murderer?"

"I'm not!" the thief protested, only to be ignored again.

"Where do we draw the line?" Aveline asked, picking through her pouch for coins to get something else to eat. "I mean, if we start here -- if we start with killers or slavers, where do we stop? Why do we stop?"

"I ask myself that every day. With mages, the answer used to be simple -- because demons. But, in Kirkwall, you might as well demand a phylactery for everyone in the city, if demons are the problem. I heard all about the Harimanns, and Keran's... definitely provided some insight. What is it that makes a mage deserving of that, but a common criminal isn't?" Cullen shrugged and wandered toward a small cart in the corner of the plaza. "They have the best candied persimmons, over here. I'll buy."

"Candied persimmons are hardly a full lunch," Aveline grumbled, but followed, anyway. If Cullen was buying, she could still get another pork pasty. "Mages are dangerous," she insisted. "It's just the way things are."

"You're right," Cullen agreed, paying a few coins for a stick of candy-coated persimmon quarters. "Mages are dangerous. Foreign leaders threatening to invade our city are dangerous, too. And muggers. And the Coterie. And any man with a sword or a knife to his name. The Qunari rained fire on Kirkwall, once, with no magic in it. So, yes, mages are dangerous, but they're really not alone in the dangers they pose, and stabbing a mage will make them just as dead as anyone else." Except in the case of Anders, he recalled, but it was best not to speak of that or even admit it had happened.

Eyeing Cullen's treat, Aveline decided she might go for that candied persimmon first after all and maybe have another pasty for dessert if she was still hungry. A bit backwards, but that looked tasty.

"Still," she said, taking the stick offered her and stepping back to let Cullen pay, "the potential for abuse is there. Why has this only been used for mages for so long if it's a viable solution? We can't be the first to have had this thought outside of Tevinter."

"Because you need magic for the phylacteries to work," Cullen replied, a persimmon quarter between his teeth. "And you know how most people react just to the thought of magic." Cullen took a moment to chew before continuing. "As for abuse, there would, of course, be laws about it. We'd place the idea before the Viscount and the Noble Council and let them hash it out. But just imagine being able to hunt down a criminal the moment a crime is reported. If nothing else, just knowing that we _can_ find them should put the fear of the Maker into them."

"It's not the worst idea I've heard," Aveline replied, which Cullen took as praise. "But that wouldn't be a conflict? The Order -- or at least the mages -- enforcing city law?"

"Are they enforcing it?" Cullen asked, somewhat rhetorically. "Because it looks like they're just providing tools for enforcing it. You don't say a smith's enforcing the law, when he makes shackles for the guard."

"But, can you... how do they work? Would guardsmen be able to use them?" Aveline nibbled at the edge of a persimmon slice. "If they require magic, there's no way my guards are going to be able to do anything with them."

"Magic is necessary to make them, not to use them. As far as I know, with a little training, anyone can use one, once it's made -- and that's another danger of them. Another reason we keep them in vaults, and not just on a shelf. What if the Crows end up with the First Enchanter's phylactery?" Cullen shook his head. "It's a consideration you'll have to make. Where would you keep them, and how would you protect them? Under what circumstances can they be taken out? Who can get them and who can use them? You don't want to see this in the wrong hands, but in the right hands, it could be a very powerful tool."

"If you're trying to sell me this idea, Cullen, that's not how to do it," Aveline muttered around a mouthful of candied fruit.

"I am merely offering another option," Cullen insisted, gesturing with his stick of fruit. "That pickpocket right there. You said it wasn't his first offense. If we hadn't been sitting right here, would you have caught him?"

"Probably not," Aveline grumbled. She pulled the next wedge off of the stick with her teeth, and the two of them moved away from the cart and around the plaza. 

"And if we had seen him, but he'd managed to get away?"

"I would have given his description to my guards and to any local shopkeepers he's likely to affect."

"You would wait until he slipped up and the right person saw him?"

Aveline sighed. "Yes. Which usually wouldn't happen until long after the incident is forgotten. Or... well. Maybe not with this idiot." She glared back at said idiot, and he tried to shrink in on himself.

"With a phylactery, meanwhile -- which you would have because he's already committed a crime -- it would lead you right to him, saving you valuable resources and man hours.'

"It'll never get past the Council," Aveline muttered, "but I can see the appeal. And paying less people to do more work is probably a worthwhile principle, as far as the nobles are concerned. Safer streets without having to hire another ten guards. Instead, we can hire a couple of mages. Hiring mages still isn't going to make anyone happy. It's a weird thing to say, too."

"We are fortunate people, because there are mages to hire," Cullen noted, around a mouthful. "How's that warmer working out?"

"It's great. The bedsheets haven't caught fire once, and I don't have to worry about leaving it there and going to work. Donnic loves it." Aveline paused. "It's still not the same thing. That's something personal. This is something civil."

"No, it's not the same, but it's a selling point. We use magical products in other places -- things enchanted by the Tranquil, one-shot spells from the mages. They've changed the way we live, and I really think it's for the better, even if that's only because my back doesn't hurt and my toes aren't cold. It's the little things." Cullen shrugged and nibbled chips of the candy that was still stuck on the stick. "Can't let it make you complacent, but definitely take advantage of a good thing, while we have it. Might not be long, with all that shit going on in the College of Enchanters. The Grand Enchanter's really pissing some people off, this year, and I mostly agree with what she's saying, even if I don't necessarily agree with the specifics. She's taking too big of a step, too quickly, but she's on the right path, I think."

"I've heard about that," Aveline said, toying with the last wedge on her stick. "People are always weird around magic, but the tension is higher than usual. Whether or not the Grand Enchanter is on the right path, I wouldn't be surprised if all the politics turned bloody."

Cullen shrugged and rolled his empty stick between his fingers. "You saw what happened here. Hopefully it won't come to that, but..."

"But what if it does, and the Order suppresses a rebellion? Where does that leave Kirkwall and its new system, phylacteries included?" Aveline chewed on the end of her stick and shook her head. "It's all too much of a mess."

"Hey, at least we're in Kirkwall. We're prepared for a mess. It's everyone else I'm worried about." Cullen chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck. "But, really, this city's survived so much, it would take an Exalted March to make a dent."

"That's not as unlikely as you're implying," Aveline grumbled.

"No, but if the College starts shearing towers off, nobody's going to get hit with the full force of it," Cullen pointed out. "Certainly not us."


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shopping for gifts. More talk of phylacteries, and some talk of gentlemen in lacy underthings.

The jingle of the bell over the door told Varania that they had customers, and she looked up from the ledger, her saleswoman smile plastered on before she saw who it was. At the sight of Merrill, her smile eased into something more natural.

"Ah! Good morning, ladies!" she called out, stepping out from behind the counter to greet them. 

"Good to see you again, Varania!" Ella greeted her, stepping out from behind Merrill. Her hair was brushed over her forehead but didn't quite hide the brand. "Is it ready yet or am I too early?"

Varania held up one finger, smile growing. "It's in the back. I'll go get it. You ladies shop around a little!"

Merrill eyed a basket of odd sizes. "You know, Theron's birthday is coming up, soon. The clan never makes a big deal of it. It's because he's an orphan. Celebrating his survival might bring down some last strike on the clan. Of course, given the things we've already been through, that seems a little silly. Other people get little gifts and sweets."

"Oh, how terrible for him!" Ella looked shocked that someone who seemed to have a family would still do without. "Of course, we don't celebrate, either. I don't even know when my birthday is, but I'm sure mum will remind me, when it's time. It's so good to see her, again."

"Well, seeing how the Hawkes celebrate, it just feels wrong not to do something nice. When you find yours, let me know. You should have a nice celebration, too." Merrill smiled, easily, picking through the basket of lacy panties.

"Are you sure this is what you should be getting him?" Ella asked, after a moment, when Merrill picked up a particularly tiny pair.

"Of course! Fran's is Theron's favourite thing about Kirkwall. He loves these. You should see the ones Kalli talked him out of." Merrill grinned. "Even I thought they looked a little impractical, with a sword like his."

Ella giggled into her hand, wondering if _any_ sword could fit into the panties Merrill picked up to inspect. "The lace on that one is a nice touch," she said, face red from laughter.

"Mm, a bit itchy, though. Here." She held out the fabric for Ella to feel. "He complained about the waistband of the last ones leaving a mark. I'd been wondering why he'd kept squirming through dinner..."

Ella started poking through the basket with Merrill. "I don't know his size, but... how about these? Feel."

"Ooh, silky!" Merrill cooed. "That shade of blue would look lovely on him. Not sure his hips are that wide, though." 

"Who are you shopping for?" Varania asked, returning from the back carrying a box. She hoped this time no one was shopping for her brother.

"Theron Mahariel," Merrill replied. "He's an old friend. And a regular here, I think."

"Ah yes. I know Theron." Varania handed the box off to Ella and reached into the basket of panties, pulling out the same pair they were looking at, but in a smaller size. "This should fit him better. Though I warn you he already has that colour. Perhaps a pair in red? Or a nice emerald?"

"Oh, a green would look good on him. He looks good in green," Merrill agreed, digging through the basket for another pair in the same size.

"Is this it?" Ella asked, gesturing at the box.

"Your hat? Yes. Here, let me help you try it on. It's a little difficult, the first time." Varania opened the box to reveal a hat in pale gold with black accents. "Hold your hair to the side?"

Ella faced Varania and did so, noting that she was now facing away from any other customers, while Varania fitted the hat on her.

"Under the back, there are two straps. They're the ends of the black part in front. You tie those, and then it doesn't slide down. The frame is a little bit large, but it's wooden, so it will shrink a bit, in time." Varania brought Ella's hands up to the straps and held the hat still as she tied them. "And I thought you might like it with a flower, instead of the emblem of Minrathous."

As Varania stepped back, Ella turned to look in one of the mirrors. "Oh, it's lovely! I hardly even recognise myself! I look so exotic, like someone important!"

"Well, you are shopping with a baroness," Varania pointed out.

"Oh, that's me!" Merrill said after a moment, beaming. "I'm still not used to that, even after all the Noble Council meetings I've tried not to sleep through. Baroness! But oh, Ella, you are far more important than a baroness! And you'll be setting the fashion in Kirkwall once the Orlesians see you."

Ella preened, grinning at Merrill's reflection as she adjusted the hat on her head. It was perfect, sharp, gorgeous, and it hid the sunburst on her forehead for the days she didn't feel like dealing with it. "This is fantastic, Varania! Thank you!"

"My pleasure." Varania tipped her head graciously. "Now, my darling Merrill. Was that a yes to the green?" At Merrill's nod, Varania reached into the basket again, pushing aside fabric until she pulled out a pair of green panties in the correct size. Merrill cooed at the colour, which Varania took to be a good sign. "Now, are you looking for anything to go with these panties? We have stockings over by this table that I think would go lovely with this shade of green."

"Stockings?" Ella said, looking equal parts surprised and impish. "Oh, let's."

"So," Merrill sighed, nudging folded pairs of stockings, "Carver is very upset about something Cullen's offered to do, and I really don't understand why. I can't think of anyone better to ask, than the two of you. Both mages and not Dalish."

"Oh, no," Ella groaned. "Keran heard them yelling. It's the phylactery, isn't it?"

Merrill nodded. "Cullen's said it would help him or Carver find me, if there's a problem. He knows I hunt demons, and he wants to be sure that if anything goes wrong, he can send in another team to finish the job and save me. It sounds very considerate, really. I don't understand why Carver's so upset!"

"Phylacteries are used to track escaped mages," Ella explained, carefully. "They're part of what keeps us from being able to just leave the tower. Well, until Cullen. I think Carver's upset because he doesn't want anyone else to be able to track you. If templars came from Val Royeaux, they could make Cullen turn over the phylacteries -- what of them are left, anyway -- and start hunting people down."

"Oh." Merrill's brows knit in concern as she tried to right a set of stockings she'd knocked aside. "Well, that does seem bothersome. Does that happen often?"

"Often?" Ella said. "No, not often. But if they come the one time, that would be more than enough."

"And you have a phylactery, right?" Varania asked, reaching past Merrill to properly fix what she'd just tried to fix. Ella nodded. "What has happened to it, now that Cullen is letting the mages go? Did they keep yours because you're still around?"

"I... honestly, I don't know. I'm a bit afraid to ask, and if Keran hasn't said anything, I doubt there's anything for me to know. It's probably still there, somewhere, but I don't think they mean to ever use it. Did... did they do anything like that in Tevinter?"

"For all mages? No." Varania scoffed, shaking her head. She picked up a pair of stockings with a subtle but intricate Orlesian design and held them up against the panties they'd already chosen. "Slaves, on the hand... Even after I was freed, Danarius held onto mine. I... have no idea what's become of it, but I can't imagine it would be useful to anyone else. Here. What do you think of this combination?"

"Oh, those are lovely! Will they fit around his thighs?" Merrill asked, squinting at the tops. "I think those will definitely be more of a gift for Kalli."

"That's... He wears things like this on purpose?" Ella asked again, eyeing the lace. "I just keep thinking of Keran and..." She broke off laughing. "Oh, but maybe something simple. Something blue... He looks so handsome in blue."

Varania reached behind her and picked up a very plain pair of polished silk smalls. She offered them to Ella. "Perhaps something with a bit less trim? From what I've seen, templars tend to less ... flamboyant tastes."

"That is... ooh!" Ella turned them over in her hands, imagining Keran wearing them. "Absolutely. I'll take a pair and I'll be back for more once I know if they fit."

"I'm sure those would show off his bottom, nicely, but can you even see it under all those skirts?" Merrill looked quizzically at the smalls Ella held.

"I was hoping he'd wear them without the skirts in the way!" A lecherous grin crept across Ella's face and she burst out in giggles. "But, really, Merrill, I think Carver's just worried about someone _else_ using your phylactery to hurt you. If Cullen's really the only one with access to it, I don't see any harm in it, except the part where they stab you a bit to get blood for it."

"Oh, who hasn't gotten stabbed a bit in Kirkwall?" Merrill asked cheerfully, waving the thought aside. "And Carver worries too much, really. It's terribly sweet, but sometimes he works himself up into a fit and then it's hard for me to calm him down."

"Maybe you could distract him with some smalls of his own," Ella suggested, shaking with giggles. "What about a nice lacy pair in black?" She poked at the assortment behind her.

"Black would be lovely," Merrill agreed as Varania handed her a second set of stockings to inspect. "But you know, he would look so dashing in red." Before she said another word, Varania handed her a pair of lacy red smalls and winked. Merrill looked sorely tempted before she shook her head, biting her lip against a laugh. "As wonderful as he would look, I doubt he would enjoy them as much as I do, and then I'd end up with him making wet cat faces for the rest of the evening."

"Not big on smalls?" Varania teased.

"He's a bit silly like that." Merrill shrugged. "But ooh, these are nice!" She played with the stockings a bit, testing the give of the bands at the top. "A bit stretchier."

"The lace gives a bit. They'll get much wider without tearing, but they'll still hold their shape. Might get a bit shorter, though. Garters are a must." Varania smiled at the fascination on Merrill's face. "You know, we haven't had a night out for a while, ladies. Shall I see if I can lure Orana away from my brother, for a night?"

"Oh, do make sure she brings Evantia!" Ella grinned and shook her head. "The things that woman knows about people!"

"Orana told me that Artemis has been getting flowers from some secret admirer from Antiva," Merrill added, her eyes sparkling. "I want to know more about that!"

"Has he? Fenris hasn't mentioned anything, but their house has looked a bit... floral, lately. I assumed Evie was bringing Orana flowers, but this is much more interesting!" Varania covered her smile with one hand. "Shall I put those on your tabs for this month, and see if I can get Evantia to come out with us on Washday?"

"Yes, _please_!" Ella bounced enthusiastically, and her hat stayed put, the golden drape fluttering against the backs of her shoulders.

"Let's do it at my house," Merrill volunteered. "Everyone bring something. I'll get those little Orlesian cheese and sausage balls."


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trouble is stirring in the Chantry. Cullen makes a decision to reach out to as many former Gallows mages as he can find, and he's got just the man for the job.

Tim looked up from his work to find one of the Tranquil standing in his doorway. "Yes, Elsa?"

"The Knight-Commander wishes to see you. He says to inform you it's very serious," Elsa droned, unmoved by the expressed seriousness of the situation or much of anything else. "Is there anything you need from me, First Enchanter?"

"No, Elsa. Thank you. I'll be along shortly." Tim pushed himself out of his chair, straightened his horns, and picked up his staff. "I trust he's in his office?" he asked, but Elsa had already gone. "Tranquil," he sighed, and set out, up the hall.

Tim's assumption was correct, which was a blessing really, as his knees were a bit creaky this morning, and he didn't relish traipsing about the Gallows looking for the Knight-Commander. He'd barely started to knock when Cullen's door swung open onto a face he didn't recognise. The woman looked him up and down, her stare lingering on his horned hat. 

"First Enchanter Tim?" she asked in an accent Tim couldn't place.

Tim nodded. "That's me."

"Come in, Tim," Cullen's voice called out from inside the room. When Tim obeyed, the woman closed the door behind him, giving the knob a light tug to make sure it would stay closed. Inside, Tim found Cullen behind his desk, the lines in the Commander's forehead deeper than he remembered them. "First Enchanter Tim, this is Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast. She comes bearing some troubling news that I think you need to hear as well. Have a seat." Cullen gestured at the chair in front of his desk, which Tim sank into, knees crunching as they bent.

"Well, that sounds rather ominous," Tim said with forced cheer.

"You are familiar with the narrowly rejected proposal at the last meeting of the College of Enchanters?" Cassandra asked, picking up some papers from Cullen's desk.

"Several, actually. I've got the minutes of the last meeting. Why?" Tim's brow pinched in confusion.

"It seems someone in the Chantry took that poorly. Specifically the vote to split the Circles away from Templar control." Cassandra handed one page to Tim. "If you'll look here, First Enchanter, it seems an order has been issued to disband the College of Enchanters."

"Disband? Oh, no, that's terrible! I was looking forward to going to Cumberland, later this year. So much for my holiday." Tim examined the page in his hand. "Who gave this order?"

"That's the problem," Cullen cut in. "We don't know. And from the rest of the reports in that pile, not a lot of Circles are questioning it. It's written the same as any other missive to come out of the Divine's office, and the seal is correct, but we don't recognise that signature."

"The commander, in Cumberland, insists the order has come down from one of the Divine's advisers, but Justinia will not confirm the order came from her." Cassandra shook her head and gestured with the pages she still held. "This is being enforced like the Maker's own word. It is not just the College of Enchanters, but meetings between any groups of mages from different Circles, now. I bring this to you and Cullen, because I have come to understand that Kirkwall is a little quicker to question blind orders, these days, and I am hoping to rally some resistance, here."

"Resistance?" Tim repeated, raising bushy eyebrows Cullen's way. "Against the Templar Order?"

"Forgive me, Seeker," said Cullen, running a hand through his hair, "but if no one can find the origin of the order, maybe the responsibility lies with the Divine and her retinue. If the Divine speaks out, this ends before it starts."

"I have expressed a similar opinion to her Most Holy," Cassandra said. "But right now, you must realise that Kirkwall represents much of what both the Order and the Circles fear. A Knight-Commander who would issue an Annulment without sanction is a mage's worst fear. And mages rising up to overthrow their templar guards is a templar's. You managed to step in and bring about peace and civility in an impossible situation, but that's not how many other Knight-Commanders see it."

"I don't really give a damn how other Knight-Commanders see it," Cullen said, spreading his hands. "They weren't here."

"Indeed," Cassandra agreed, "but rumours spread, and everyone feels the impact of what happened here."

"And everyone's heard what happened here." Realisation broke across Cullen's face. "Tim? Have we finished an inventory of the remaining phylacteries?"

"Nearly. The vault's almost cleaned out and reindexed. Why?" Tim looked up from where he was angling the page he held in a beam of light from the window, trying to get a better look at the quality of the ink and the edges of the seal.

"Because I need a list of everyone who left us, and all their phylacteries. I need to send someone out to bring them back, before this gets any worse." Cullen rubbed his face. "Isabela. I can have Carver ask around the docks. She'll know where they went. But, they have to be given a chance to come back. An escort, if they need it."

"I thought you meant to let them run free, Commander," Cassandra pointed out, studying Cullen's face.

"I do, but it would be shameful for me to offer them freedom without also offering safety, in dangerous times. I don't want them dragged back in chains. I want them located and offered a safe way back to Kirkwall. I will make room in the budget, somehow. But, I will not have my mages stranded in foreign lands with no way to get back to a city that will protect them." Cullen's voice was firm. "If we expect them to take care of us, we must take care of them, in exchange."

* * *

Cullen found Samson on the training grounds, leaning back against the wall and loosening a few of his armour's straps. The sweat pouring down his face said that he'd just finished sparring, and he was still catching his breath when he saw Cullen approach, his march and the set of his shoulders all business.

"Ser Samson! Might I have a word?"

"Of course, Knight-Commander," Samson replied, managing to sound only a little suspicious. The last time Cullen had pulled him aside like this, the topic hadn't been a pleasant one. "You might even get two words, if I'm up for it. What can I do for you?"

"I might need to ask a favour of you, Raleigh. And a rather large one."

A sigh pulled out of Samson, and he rested his head back against the wall. "If you're looking for someone to clean the latrines, I hear the Hawke boy has a knack for it."

"Not that kind of favour, though I'll keep that in mind," Cullen drawled. "This is... I suppose I should start at the beginning. Have you heard about the College of Enchanters?"

"Do you mean, do I know of them or have I heard about what happened?" Samson huffed. "For such a large building, rumour travels fast, Cullen. Is it true? Has the Chantry disbanded it?"

"If by 'the Chantry' you mean 'some faceless individual using the seal of the Divine's office', then yes. It's bad, Raleigh. Nobody's quite sure what's going on, but the College won't be meeting in Cumberland, this year." Cullen sighed and watched one of the other matches, for a few seconds. "I need you to go get some of our mages back. Nothing violent. Just a guaranteed way back to Kirkwall, if they want to come home. I don't want to see any of ours starting problems because they can't get on a boat."

"Political bullshit, then," Samson scoffed. "You want me to go get back some of the mages we let out, so they don't make us look bad while this mess is going on with the Chantry."

"I want you to get them back so they don't end up dead or Tranquil. And yes, because I'd really rather not have some Kirkwall backed mage panicking because they've realised they're in trouble, and burning down a port, somewhere. That's not going to look good for anyone -- them, us, or the Grand Enchanter." Cullen dug a thumb into the base of his skull and took a few deep breaths. He had no idea how Anton handled this political tripe day in and out, because he was sure one of these days his eyeballs were just going to fall out from the headache it gave him. "I don't know who else I can trust with this. It's delicate, and it might get dangerous, and you're one of the best trained templars I have left. And I know the Sword on a man's chest isn't going to stop you from taking his head off if he gets in your way."

Samson groaned and closed his eyes against the sun. "Are you sure you don't want me cleaning the latrines?" he quipped before opening one eye to look at Cullen. "I was just getting comfortable here, you know, being a real templar again."

"I know," Cullen said with genuine regret. "I'll make it up to you."

"I'm sure," Samson sighed in a way that said he doubted it. "But yes, I'll do it. Someone has to, and if any of them recognise me, they'll at least know I'm not just there to turn them in. If they don't recognise me, though, I'd rather not get kicked in the teeth. Are you just sending me?"

Cullen chewed on his lip, leaning back against the wall next to Samson. "I was thinking of possibly sending a mage with you, in case something goes wrong. Would that be a terrible idea?"

Samson shrugged. "Depends on the mage. And you tell me. You were my roommate for how long?"

"I meant would it be a terrible idea to send a _mage_ , not just someone with you in general, though now you're making me second guess that. You snore, you know. Or at least you did."

"Your wheezy breathing wasn't exactly sweet music, either, _Commander_."

Cullen cleared his throat and looked back toward the shouting and clanking of swords. "Yes, my _wheezing_. Terribly sorry about that."

"Soprano wheezing," Samson muttered. "Don't know how you didn't wake Meredith with it."

"Well, fortunately for you, my operatic wheezing will be staying here, in Kirkwall." Cullen spared his former roommate a dirty look. "Any mage you'd work best with?"

"I really want to say Keran's girl, Ella."

"Raleigh..." Cullen sighed.

"No, not like that. She's marked Tranquil. Nobody's going to look twice at her." Samson huffed. "But, no. I'm not asking for her. Not for something I'm not sure we're coming back from. I'm not going to be responsible for that. How about that little asshole blood mage who keeps throwing ice in Carver's face?"

"Alain? You think?" Cullen asked, wincing as one of the recruits misjudged and took a ringing strike to the top of the shoulder.

"Sure. A former blood mage and a former former templar. He and I both seem to have a knack for making bad decisions. Maybe we'll even each other out."

"Or get both of you killed," Cullen sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "But all right. I'll ask him. That might even be for the best, since I'm not entirely sure Anton has forgiven him for his involvement with that mess with Cormac. I don't suppose it's around here, flinging ice at Carver's face?"

"No, they usually do that in the afternoon," Samson said. "The swearing would have given it away, otherwise. Swearing followed by Alain saying 'sorry' every five minutes." Samson looked much too pleased by the memory, only to frown at the pair sparring directly in front of him. "Look alive, Marlein!" he called out. "Shield up! You know better than that."

"Sorry, ser," Marlein grumbled, lifting her shield arm up. She deflected the next blow, her face grim and determined. "Arm's getting a bit tired."

"Tired arm's going to lose you a head," Samson barked, with an apologetic glance at Cullen.

"No, no, don't mind me. You've got this in hand." Cullen crossed his arms and watched Samson, amused. "And this is another reason you get to go out for this one."

"So I stop barking at the recruits?" Samson scoffed.

"No, because I know your head's not coming home in a box without the rest of you." Cullen eyed Marlein more closely. "Hold!" He waited until the last strike terminated in a dull clank and stepped up. "Either that's not your armour, or you need better armour."

"What?" Marlein scowled and looked up at Cullen. "It's my size. I got it from the quartermaster when I joined."

"It's not your size. It's also why your arm's tired. Go get measured for something that actually fits." Cullen paused and glanced at Samson. "Was Meredith not fitting armour for the lower ranks?"

"I couldn't tell you. I'd been wearing mine a decade and more by the time she started ... getting difficult." Samson shrugged and took a closer look at where Cullen's eyes had been. "You're right, though. Good eye. Cannons are too wide, and it's probably too broad in some other places, too. It's not natural to stand like that. You're hauling more metal than you need, Marlein. You get a good fit, this is going to be like dancing."

"I was never any good at that either," Marlein muttered.

"Well, not in that armour!" Samson laughed.

"Look, that's too big. And Maker only knows what it's made of. What was Meredith thinking, cutting costs like that? No wonder she lost so many men! I'm going to have to go through a decade of recruits and check everyone's gear." Cullen groaned. "You, though, Raleigh. You get to miss all the excitement."


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theron has a birthday.

Natia looked pleased as she finished her circuit around the latest of the new houses, pausing to jot something down in her notes, shorthand symbols only she could read. It was solid dwarf construction with elfish design, made with less stone and more windows than made her comfortable, but, she had to admit, the end result was graceful. 

"Looks solid to me," she said, glancing back at Ashalle. "Just gotta do a bit of clean-up, and then you can move a family into their new home. Or... well, it doesn't have to be a family, but you get my gist. How are the last structures holding up?"

"I don't think Hahren Paivel knows what to do with his yet," Ashalle said with a soft chuckle, "but he's already expressed how grateful he is, especially after that rainstorm earlier in the week."

Artemis hummed, chewing his lip as he checked for errors and asymmetry in the aesthetic details. He told himself to ignore the sorts of details only he would notice. That was easier said than done. "That was not a pleasant storm. I hope he let you borrow his roof?"

"Of course. He's smarter than he looks," Ashalle teased.

"Now," Natia cut in, tapping her lip with her quill. "I know we originally discussed putting the library here." She took a large step to indicate where, roughly, they'd plotted out the entrance. "But that was before I took a good look at this cliffside, which I think we can use to our advantage. No point in letting all this stone go to waste, when it's right here."

" _This_ cliffside?" Artie asked, pointing, as though there were any other cliffside she could mean. "You want to dig into _this_ mountain? One word. Varterral. No, wait. Two words. Varterral and pride demon. No, no, make that three words. Varterral, pride demon, and _dragon lady_."

"That's... are you hyphenating those words in your mind or do we need to discuss your idea of counting?" Natia asked.

Artie cleared his throat. "My point is valid, even if I'm terrible at expressing it."

"I'm not sure the varterral's cave is that close to this cliff," Ashalle pointed out. "I haven't been inside it since we discovered the varterral, obviously, but I don't recall the upper passages heading this way. And the entrance is below the ground level, here, so it's only the upper level we'd be cutting into, if we hit it, at all. Still, it might be worth a survey. That thing's usually not up top, right?"

"What... _is_ a varterral?" Natia asked, looking between the two of them.

"A holy guardian of ancient sites favoured by Dirthamen, our god of wisdom and learning. The legends say he made them from the mountain and the forest to protect a city from dragons. They are, it seems, truly eternal." Ashalle made no effort to keep the awe out of her voice.

"They're frightening spider-like creatures with an odd number of limbs," Artie huffed, trying not to think about Cormac and his gods and that ridiculous tattoo. "And they really _can't_ be killed. I've tried. Twice. But my point was less about the varterral -- which, frankly, is frightening enough -- and more about the fact that this mountain is full of weird shit, and I'd rather we not unearth something else that could potentially eat us."

"Right. Survey team before digging. We can do that." Natia nodded and made a note on the corner of the page. "I know this mountain is full of caves, and while I'd love to make use of the existing structure, I don't want to do it with this building. And I definitely don't want to do it anywhere we're going to run into holy spiders." She paused and eyed the cliff. "I still want to smooth that slope and add a little support, to make sure it doesn't slide. Looks like we loosened the top a little with all the slamming things into the ground we've been doing, down here."

Ashalle leaned over and smudged a line on the drawing. "Ease off, here. It's supposed to be a bear, not a bereskarn."

"Well, considering I've never seen either of those things, I think that was a pretty good guess!" Natia laughed. "Theron! Theron, c'mere! Your ma says your bear looks like a bereskarn!" She squinted up at Ashalle. "You people have scary shit up on the surface, you know that?"

"That is _not_ a bereskarn!" Theron protested, trotting over to the unlikely trio and affecting a look of injured dignity.

"Then what are we these spikes, then?" Natia asked, tilting the drawing so he could see.

"That's its fur! Bears have fur!"

Artemis shuffled behind Natia and squinted at the drawing. "Oh yeah. I can see where it... fluffs out. Now, I am no bear expert, but I don't think their fur is quite that spiky or... grows out from their faces in that direction."

"Well, why don't we ask one, and _you_ can draw it?" Theron huffed, hands on his hips.

Artie shrugged at Natia. "Still a better bear than I can draw. Just... follow the basic shape. A less spiky shape."

Natia shrugged in kind. "He could have given it wings, and I wouldn't know the difference." Fingers drumming along the back of her notes, Natia returned her attention to the cliffside. "It occurs to me that magic would make shaping the rock much simpler. That's primal magic, right? Don't we have a few mages who specialise in that on the construction crew? Or is this too big a scale for them to work on?"

Artemis cleared his throat and scratched at his arm. "We... have a few of those, yes. Some better suited than others."

"By which you mean not you," Theron clarified, tossing an arm around Artie's waist. "Really, not him. There won't be a cliff left."

"Yeah, this seemed a little precise. No offence." Natia winked at Artie. "I know we want you when it comes to really pounding things down. Fenris must be so lucky."

Theron choked on his tongue and Ashalle excused herself to go check on the roast that was cooking near where Fenris was leaning against a tree, dazzling some young women with wild stories of his adventures.

Artie's whole face reddened embarrassingly fast, and he coughed to hide his hysterical laughter. "Pounding of things... does happen when I'm around," he said, darting a look at his husband.

"And he's got a real talent for improbable uses for tight spaces." Theron grinned and wiggled his eyebrows, before the sound of swearing and shifting gravel drifted up from the approach to the camp.

"Ancestors!" A recognisable voice drifted up. "I keep telling you girls I'm a dwarf, not a _horse_!"

Theron's eyebrows shot straight up. "Fenris? Come help me save Varric from some giggling girls?"

Looking a bit confused, but still terribly smug, Fenris extracted himself from the small crowd around him and made his way toward where Varric was trying and clearly failing to drag a cart over the last rise... accompanied by Merrill and Varania. "Didn't I tell you to stay away from my sister?" he joked. "It wasn't because I was worried about her."

Theron laughed and slid down the edge of the road. "Lovely to see you both. And you too, Merrill."

Merrill swatted him on the arm. "Is that what you say to the only person who remembered what day it is?"

"The... second of Guardian?" Theron ventured, bracing himself behind the cart. "Grab the front, Fenris. We can move this."

"I could move this," Fenris called out. "What is this 'we' business?"

"Oh, come on, at least make it look like we're exerting some effort, here!" Theron laughed. "Sorry, Varric. It's really just you."

Varric flapped a hand in the air, panting for breath. "I'm already half convinced Fenris could manhandle a dragon. Where do you even put the strength in those spindly arms?"

Fenris shrugged, moving the cart with an ease that made Varric want to point Bianca between his ears. "Maybe it's not the arms. Maybe it's your chest hair weighing you down."

Varric petted his chair hair, not seeming to mind this theory.

"But... really what is all this for?" Theron asked. He stopped even pretending to help move the cart while Fenris showed off, grinning at the ladies he'd just been impressing.

Merrill rolled her eyes and pressed a package into Theron's hands, a package tied with a blue ribbon. "You're going to make me say it, aren't you? For your birthday, you daft fool."

Theron looked back and forth between Merrill and the package in his hands, looking more confused than delighted. "For...? Oh." His brow smoothed in realisation. "Oh, Merrill, you shouldn't have."

Varric squinted at the pair of them. "That's not usually how elves respond to birthdays or to receiving gifts."

"Clearly you've never gotten a gift from Merrill," Theron quipped.

"They said he was cursed," Merrill filled in. "We weren't allowed to celebrate. But, it's a time for change, isn't it? You can have a new tradition, now."

"You're out of your mind," Theron managed, throwing his arms around Merrill and squeezing her as he lifted her up. "You know Junar's going to shit enough bricks to build a house, right?"

"Well, then, Junar doesn't get cake and ale. I didn't bring enough for him, anyway," Merrill squeaked, unable to get a deep breath. "Speaking of strong arms..."

"Yes, do put her down, Theron," Varania suggested. "That's not a colour elves should be, if they're not my brother."

"Even I don't turn that colour," Fenris added, checking that he'd stopped the cart on level ground.

Theron cleared his throat and put Merrill back on the ground, blinking a few times, to clear his eyes, before he looked again at the small package. "You... got me something? What did you get me?" he asked, sliding the bow off and settling it around Merrill's head.

"I made sure they were your size," Varania chimed in, as he lifted the lid.

"Did you really?" Theron tossed the lid of the box and whipped out the small puddle of green lace. "You did! These are amazing!"

"You bought him lacy smalls?" Varric sounded confused as he squinted up at the object of Theron's excitement.

"Because he wears lacy smalls," Fenris pointed out, shrugging at Varric. "Don't ask me. Maybe it's an elf thing. I'm pretty bad at the whole elf thing."

"It's not an elf thing," Theron primly answered. "It's a having-good-taste thing. Right, Artemis?" He called out as Artemis and Natia wandered over to investigate the ruckus.

Artie eyed the panties and hid his smirk behind his hand. "That is... not something I plan to have opinions on in public."

"Well, then you can share your opinion later in private," Theron replied with an exaggerated wink. All of this was more than Varric needed to hear.

Artemis took the panties out of Theron's hand and pulled them down over Theron's head. "Honestly. Why didn't you tell me it was your birthday? We're over here talking about stone and bereskarn when we could be eating cake!"

"I... guess it took me by surprise?" Theron smiled sheepishly, adjusting the panties on his head so they weren't pressing his ears flat.

Merrill swatted his arm. "Don't stretch them before you use them! And there's matching stockings in there, if you're interested in that sort of thing. Varania recommends garters."

Varania nodded sagely while Fenris cleared his throat. One look at Varric's face, and he said, "Perhaps we should have saved the presents until after the drinking."

"There is a lot of drinking to do, looking at that cart." Theron threw an arm around Varric. "I'd carry you around, for bringing it all up here, but I think I'd break a shoulder."

"Please don't pick me up," Varric sighed. "I may be the worst dwarf ever, but I still have a certain appreciation for keeping at least some of my body parts in contact with the ground."

Theron yanked the smalls off his head and put them back in the box. "I should be wearing someone else's smalls on my head. Wearing my own feels like cheating." He eyed Artie contemplatively. "But, first, the drinking."

"Yes, the drinking, so that when it comes down to smalls and heads, your wife's will be on my head, and my sister's will still be on her," Fenris suggested, with a glance at Varania.

"Oh, Fenris," Varania sighed. "If they come off, I promise you won't see them. I don't expect Paivel's that interested in lacy headwear, and if he was, I'd make him a hat. Speaking of which, did you see the lovely hat I made for Ella?"


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cake and a friendly duel.

"Emissaries from Kirkwall have arrived bearing gifts!" Theron shouted across the camp. "Cakes and ale, in honour of our new village! And me! Because I'm awesome!"

"Oh, stuff a cork in it, halla-fucker!" one of the scouts called from beside the fire, throwing a pine cone in Theron's direction.

Theron caught the pine cone and threw it right back, nailing the scout in the ass.

"Are they still calling you that?" Artemis asked, head tilted. "I thought they'd stopped after the, ah. You know. The halla." He still didn't know where that particular nickname came from. He'd heard Tamlen call Theron that a few times when they were still kids, but the one time Artie asked, Theron went red and sputtery and changed the subject. Artie still prayed there were no actual halla involved in that.

" _Apparently_ ," Theron grumbled, glaring at the cackling elves around the fire.

"Oh, ignore them," Merrill said, pressing a cup of ale into Theron's hand and taking a sip from her own. "And don't worry, Artie, I still don't think you look anything like a halla."

"Well, that's... um." Artemis blinked and stared down at the ground, a look of horror slowly breaking across his face. "Wait, _what_?" He spun on the pine-cone-throwing scout. " _Am I the halla in this scenario_?"

"Careful," one of the other elves, wide-eyed, hissed to her friend. "That's the mage shem who flattened the ground!"

The scout went from laughing to terrified in the space of a second.

Merrill opened her mouth to explain, but Theron slapped a hand over it.

"Yes and no," he said, after a moment. "Tamlen... didn't have the same appreciation for shemlen. Used to say you were all animals, and that bit of fur I always found so charming was proof of it. He'd tell me he'd be watching me around the halla. It just... stuck." Theron smiled at the box in his hands. "I miss that laughing asshole."

"Me too. I wish he were here so I could punch him in the fucking face, the little shit," Artie huffed, all burning cheeks and bruised pride. He glared at the scout. "You better not try to hitch me to an aravel."

Theron leaned in to whisper in Artie's ear. "Why would I hitch you to an aravel, when there are so many more fun things I could tie you to?"

Ashalle yanked the tip of Theron's ear. "Not in front of your mother."

"Ow, Ashalle!" Theron laughed and stumbled to the side. "I'm not just some fool child with tight pants, any more!"

"No, now he's a foolish grown man with tight pants and a persistent fetish for beasts of burden!" the scout called out. "Hitch him to an aravel? Seems like a waste, when he could push six across the plains!" he shot a glance at Artemis and considered exactly how dangerous that glare might be. "Joking. Totally joking. Not serious at all."

"How do you put up with this?" Fenris muttered to Kalli, after a few moments.

"Frequent duels." Kalli grinned. "I don't have to hurt anyone. I just have to shame a few people, every once in a while."

Fenris could picture that. "I won't need to duel anyone over my husband's halla-status, will I?" he drawled.

"I think he has the situation well in hand," she said as Artemis said something about gladly pushing the one scout across the plains and possibly down this mountain. Kalli watched the sweat bead on the scout's forehead. "Which is a shame. I'm sure the ladies -- and Artemis -- would appreciate seeing the way you wield a sword."

Fenris smirked, not needing to look over his shoulder to know the gaggle of ladies behind him was still ogling him. "Now, we both know such a duel would be terribly unfair," he said, perhaps a bit smugly.

"Not if you were duelling me," Kalli replied, matching his tone and casually resting her wrists on her knives' hilts at her waist. "Or even Theron. You wouldn't know it to look at the oaf, but he's quick with a sword."

"Quick with his sword? That's not usually a compliment."

"Depends on what that sword's being used for." Kalli grinned and elbowed Fenris before calling to her husband. "Theron! Fenris wants to see how quick your sword is!"

"Finally surrendering to the glory of true elven swording, hmm?" Theron's eyes sparkled as he wrapped an arm around Artemis. "Shall we wager? If I win, I get one, full, uninterrupted night with your ever so tempting husband, who is both horny and fluffy, but is very much not a halla. I know, I'd get that anyway, but strictly a gentlemen's wager."

"If my ever-so-tempting husband desires your company for an entire evening, which becomes less likely the longer this halla joke goes on, I won't stand in the way of that." Fenris smirked at Kalli. "And if I win? What do you think, Kalli? Do we have him watch? I'm certain Artemis can find some entertainment, here, while I shame Theron twice in a row."

"He has no shame," Kalli scoffed. "Still, if he's going to sit there and make scolded mabari faces all night, I'm in."

"Well, after that, I'm not losing!" Theron laughed. "I'll have my wife _and_ your husband while you sit out and play with your sword, all night!"

Fenris gestured behind him. "I'll hardly be alone."

"Oh, just get on with it," Artemis said, less exasperated than he sounded. "Is this a duel or a sword measuring contest? Just wait until I've cut myself a bit of cake before you get started please."

Varric was already in the process of helping himself to the cake, and he cut slices for Artemis, Varania, and Merrill, handing each plate out, one at a time. "Broody, you should know better than to be mixing wagers with your husband!" he called out, pointing with the knife.

"Should I?" Fenris called back without looking back. He rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck while the other elves and Natia gave him and Theron a wide berth, forming a loose circle around them that Varric soon supplied with cake. "Last I recall, that ended rather well for me _and_ my husband."

"And once again, more than I needed to know," Varric sighed before stuffing his mouth with cake. 

Artie offered him a sheepish shrug. "He's not wrong."

"Kalli, my wife, my shining virtue of womanhood," Theron started to say.

"Fuck you," was her blasé response.

"Later. Could you please fetch my sword from the aravel?" Never taking his eyes off Fenris, Theron made a show of cracking his knuckles and stretching his arms.

Fenris peeled off his shirt and ran a hand through his hair, a faintly amused half-smile never leaving his lips. "Varania? My sword?"

"You have a husband," Varania pointed out.

"Yes, but I am _asking_ my sister." Fenris looked over his shoulder at her.

"Your sister thinks you should ask your husband," Varania said, with a smile, settling into Paivel's lap, with her cake.

"This is the thanks I get for not setting you on fire along with Danarius?" Fenris asked, faint irritation creeping into his voice.

"That was Anders, anyway," Varania said, with her mouth full of cake. "And turn around."

Fenris looked back to where two of the elves who had been listening to his stories were standing with his sword -- still that Blade of Mercy that Artemis had brought him from below Kirkwall. The thing was made to last, he'd been forced to admit, after using the centuries-old weapon in more battles than he'd expected it to survive. "Disarm or first blood?" he asked, drawing the full length of the large blade from the scabbard the women still held.

"Disarm," Theron decided. "If you can get this blade out of my hands, I'll be genuinely impressed."

It wouldn't be just a battle of blades, then, Fenris knew. This would require the kind of close combat a greatsword was designed to prevent. "Prepare to quail before my excellence, then."

"Quail? No thank you. I'm saving room for cake."

Kalli rolled her eyes at the awful pun and reconsidered handing him his sword. "I should give this to you blade first just for that."

"Thank you, ma vhenan," Theron said, offering her a wink as he drew his sword from its scabbard. Then, noting that Fenris was shirtless and being ogled by elves and shem alike, Theron pulled his shirt over his head, passing his sword from one hand to another as he wriggled out of the sleeves. He tossed his shirt in his wife's direction but didn't see it land in the cake Varric was handing to her.

Fenris lifted his sword, hands flexing along the grip, and Theron followed suit. With anyone else, Theron would consider the longsword an advantage against a greatsword, but he knew just how scary fast Fenris could move. Slowly, they circled, eyes locked.

Theron struck first, leaping inside the greatsword's reach and making a stab for Fenris's chest. Fenris twisted to the side, his sword's pommel darting for Theron's throat but hitting air as Theron hopped back out of reach.

Fenris waited, knowing Theron had the advantage of a sword that handled almost as well in one hand. But, Theron was also cocky, and bound to do something stupid, eventually. Fenris lunged, sword low and close, and Theron took advantage of the relative stability of the blade, landing one foot on it for a leap that propelled him up and Fenris's sword down. And that was when Fenris took one hand off the sword and grabbed Theron's ankle. Their eyes met just before Fenris pulled and Theron's back slammed into the ground.

Hit and roll, Theron knew, and he was in motion before he hit, foot breaking out of Fenris's grasp and slamming into Fenris's hip, shoving him off balance, while Theron recovered his feet, grip still solid on the sword. Theron darted in, reaching under Fenris's blade. He'd done it a hundred times, and he could do it a hundred more -- except Fenris was an elf, not a shem, and that dip had put him right in line with the elbow that took him between the eyes. Still, he took first blood.

Fenris reeled back, eyes still on Theron as his arm pressed against the slim slice on his chest. Not serious, and really what he should have expected, knocking Theron off balance with a sword that close to his chest. But, he lunged forward again, taking a solid punch under one shoulder, but clipping Theron hard across the jaw with the pommel of his sword.

Theron staggered, reeling at the impact, and Fenris pushed his advantage and followed up with an elbow to Theron's chest. Seeing stars and struggling to breathe, Theron felt his sword start to slip through his hand but tightened his grip, catching the pommel and he spun gracelessly away from Fenris's next blow.

"Stubborn, isn't he?" Varania said, impressed, as she scraped up the last few crumbs of her cake with her fingers.

"That's one word for it," Kalli grumbled, wincing when Theron's next swipe went wide. It earned him a smack in the ass from the flat of Fenris's blade, and Kalli's ale didn't quite hide her amused snort.

Theron's protest at his ass's mistreatment came in the form of a one-handed stab at Fenris's chest, one that Fenris easily evaded... only to step into Theron's other hand, Theron's fist cracking into his nose.

Artie cringed. "Hey, careful with that!" he called out to Theron.

"Listen to your husband," Theron panted, wheezing. "I thought you were going to beat me."

"I am." Fenris's staggering covered the next motion of his sword, which was to slip under Theron's blade and back around Theron's forearm. They looked at each other, and they both knew how this was going to end, but when Fenris wrenched his sword up, it slipped out of his grasp, instead of tearing the blade out of Theron's hand.

"Hah! A fist of iron!" Theron crowed, catching the terrified and confused look Fenris shot his suddenly numb fingers.

"Poison?" Fenris asked, after a moment, but quietly.

Theron shook his head, stepping closer and putting an arm around Fenris's shoulders, just tight enough to grab on, if he started to fall. "Give the man a hand!" he called out to the crowd, before tugging Fenris toward Artie.

"I'm fine," Fenris insisted, quietly.

"You just asked if I poisoned my blade. Fine is not on my list of things you might be," Theron hissed, tossing his own sword to land on top of Fenris's. The crowd would be distracted by whatever bets they'd had and clearing away the swords.

Artie set down his empty plate and slipped an arm around Fenris's waist from the other side. "That was sweet of you to let the birthday boy win," he said cheerfully, smiling to hide his concern at the look on Fenris's face. He'd watched Fenris in enough battles to know he should have won, to know that he was _about_ to win. Yet that was not the face of someone who had lost on purpose.

" _Let_ me win?" Theron protested, free hand over his chest. "You wound me, Artemis!"

"I think Fenris was doing the wounding," Artie replied, earning a pout from Theron, and while the crowd was distracted, Artemis watched his husband's face. "Are you--?"

"I'm fine," Fenris insisted again, looking just as unconvinced as he had the last time.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Further celebration. Theron tells a secret. Fenris tells tales.

"Hey, there, Broody and Fruity," Varric called out as he came up around them, a drink in either hand. "You both look like you could use a drink after that! I know I do. You lost me two gold, Broody!" 

"Fruity?" Artie repeated as Varric handed them each a drink. "Hey, Edwina, while you're taking drink orders..."

"Only if you plan on tipping me, Slutty Halla."

Artie's jaw dropped open while Theron choked on his ale.

"Well, as Theron says, you're fluffy and horny. It's not entirely inappropriate," Fenris teased, before turning to Varric. "I'd best not see that in any of your books, Varric, or it's going to be dwarf-tossing night. That _is_ my husband you're talking to like that."

"And yet, you agree with me. Slutty Halla." Varric smirked up at Fenris.

"I married him. I go to bed with him every night. I get to make jokes like that." Fenris leaned heavily on Artemis, suddenly. "And if it weren't for this old, grievous injury troubling me again, I might be sleeping on the couch, with the cats." It was impossible to tell if he was joking, but the faint sparkle in the corner of his eye suggested he might be.

"How are the furry terrorbeasts?" Varric asked after a moment's pause.

"Furry. Terrible." Fenris shrugged and sipped his beer. "One of them is like a little Anders, always yelling in the middle of the night and knocking over anything precarious it can reach. The other pretends to be cuddly, and then attaches itself in some nearly unremovable way and starts chewing on things -- hair, clothes, fingers -- as it makes a soothing rumbling noise. I expect it is trying to put me at ease while it conquers the space I am trying to occupy."

Artie stole a sip from Fenris's drink, which he found more difficult than usual, the way Fenris was gripping the mug as though afraid it would slip out of his hands too. "Honestly, the second cat reminds me a bit of Fenris," he said, shrugging one shoulder. "And speaking of, don't listen to my husband. _He_ might end up on the couch if he keeps up the halla jokes, but the cats are staying with me." The way his eyes scrinched at the corners said he was mostly joking.

"Then you'll be the one waking up with cat claws in your feet, Amatus."

"Not if I wake him up in other ways first," Theron suggested. "Which I get to do tonight, since I won the duel. And it's my birthday."

"And because whatever you're planning for tonight will put him to sleep?" Fenris drawled.

"Well, it will certainly tire him out."

"And that's my cue to leave the conversation," Varric said cheerfully, saluting them with one hand before inserting his charming self into Merrill's conversation with Natia instead.

"Really, Fenris," Theron said, quietly and far more seriously than any words Fenris had ever heard from him, "what in Andruil's name was that? Do you need to sit down? Do we need to send off to one of those places with lots of shem mages for a new healer?"

"Meredith," Fenris said shaking his head, dismissively. "She barely scratched me, but she split one of the lyrium lines. It's only been a few months. Sometimes I get a little numb. I'm sure it just needs a little more time." He laughed, a little more certain than he felt. "This is the longest I've ever gone without a healer, but Anders was sure I'd be fine. Everything just takes so long, without a healer, and nobody really knows how Danarius made this work... It's only been a few months. Come a year, you'll never know I'd been hit."

"Never been without a healer?" Theron looked amazed. "I thought you were a slave!"

"I was an extremely valuable piece of property, in an empire of mages. My-- that is, Danarius would never have stood for that kind of damage to his investment." A smile played at the corners of Fenris's mouth. "The single most expensive suicide, since the assault on the Golden City, I'd think."

"Creators, his face, at the last..." Theron laughed. "If you're sure you're all right...?"

"I'm sure." Fenris nodded. "So, explain again why we didn't know it was your birthday? I'm not sure I caught the full string of fumbling excuses, the first time."

"Ah. That." Fenris made note of the lack of eye-contact and then the glance Theron threw Merrill's way. Eventually Theron shrugged, smiling weakly as he leaned in to whisper. "That's because it's not really my birthday. That's not for a few weeks yet. Just... don't say anything to Merrill? I don't want to embarrass her. Not after she got me cake and lacy smalls."

"Oh." Artie blinked. "Well, then I don't feel so bad for not knowing about it. Why did she think today was your birthday?"

"Because it was Tamlen's." Theron's smile didn't falter, but it didn't reach his eyes either. "She probably just mixed up the days. You know how Tamlen and I were. We were practically brothers. A bit like you and Cormac, really."

Fenris managed not to react to that beyond pressing his lips together, while Artemis calmly took another, longer drink from Fenris's cup.

"But, you know, I see no better way to celebrate the fucker's birthday than to pretend it's mine and then get punched in the face with a sword!"

"While everyone makes halla jokes about me," Artie grumbled.

"You know the halla jokes were his fault, right? Those are definitely part of a proper celebration." Theron laughed, eyes still unusually still. "I need another drink. Do you need another drink? I think these drinks need more fruit in them."

"As long as you're not dipping your fruits in my drink, Fruity," Fenris teased.

"I wonder if we can pour enough drink into you to get a smile, Broody," Theron shot back. "More drink!" he cried, stepping away from the two at an angle that left Fenris a clear view of where Paivel was feeding cake to Varania. "I need ale with which to ply my pretty shemlen who is not a halla, Fen'Harel fuck you all twice before breakfast!"

Fenris's eyes lit on his sister's smiling face. She did seem happy, but that elf was old enough to be their father -- even if he could be absolutely sure their father hadn't been an elf. Well, his father, anyway. He realised he'd always assumed they'd had the same father, but Varania's features seemed so much more ... elf-like, especially surrounded by other elves, like this. Either way, Paivel was probably twice her age, and the man sitting on her other side, joking with Paivel across her, didn't seem much younger. Fenris found himself displeased. Less because that was his sister -- he'd be just as unhappy if Varania had been a brother, he realised -- and more because ... Oh. Contorted faces flashed through his memory. It wasn't about her, _at all_.

With a small sound of distress, he grabbed onto Artemis's shoulder and squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the world to right itself.

"Fen?" And then Artemis's arm was around his waist again, and even when Fenris rested his weight on his mage, they didn't teeter. "Come on, let's go sit down." Artemis's voice was calm but his eyes were wide with worry. 

"I'm fine," Fenris said, still unconvincingly, face still tight with pain.

"Well, then you can be fine, over here. Sitting." Artie led Fenris to one of the logs by the fire and gently set him down, sitting next to him. Fenris cradled his head in his hands. The images, the memories, had stopped their assault, but they left behind an ache in his temples. Artemis rubbed his back in soothing circles, and Fenris could feel the weight of his stare.

"Is this all from the wound?" Artie asked softly. "Is Theron right, should we get a healer?" Artemis missed his brother everyday, but moments like this reminded him just how much he missed Anders too. They'd relied on him for so much and hadn't realised it.

"No," Fenris muttered, quietly. "Sometimes I wonder if Anders wasn't right -- if not knowing wasn't better. Not like I can stop halfway, though. I've never been good at doing anything halfway." He finished his drink. "Why don't you convince Theron to bring me another drink? People are staring. Let them stare at him, instead."

"Maybe I could convince him to put on his lacy panties and give us a striptease. That would get people staring." Artie's smile was thin, and he pressed a kiss to Fenris's forehead. "I wish we had killed him sooner. Years sooner. Before he ever touched you sooner. I can't fix that, but I can get you that drink."

"Amatus, if he'd been killed so soon, where would I be? I'd certainly never have met you, would I? I'm not going to thank him. I won't be grateful. But, I can't see much wrong with where I've ended up." With his stronger hand, Fenris pulled his husband in for a long, slow kiss. "And now they're definitely staring."

"I could crawl into your lap and give them a real reason to stare," Artemis replied with a look that said he was only half joking. "My sappy fool." He brushed Fenris's hair back from his face, careful not to touch the bruising skin along his cheek. He pressed in for another kiss, shorter but no less affectionate, before rising to his feet. "Stay here. I'll see about that drink."

Looking across the fire, Fenris noticed his sister's eyes on him, as she whispered something to Paivel, and then the older elf was looking, too. And gesturing. Waving him over, actually. Groaning, Fenris spilled easily to his feet and made his way around the fire without tripping on anyone else's feet.

"Your sister tells me you are a hero, with a hero's tales to tell," Paivel said, patting the space beside him in invitation. "We have stories of Shartan, but few other Tevinter elves have made it into our legends. I'd like to hear your stories from you -- not half-told versions from Varania or Theron. I would like to add your name to our history."

"I am no hero," Fenris insisted, taking the seat to avoid Artemis putting him in it. "I did what I needed to do, to survive. I tried and failed to protect my family, once, because I didn't understand the stakes. The second time, I did not fail. There is no heroism in that. Any farmer could do that, and I've met several who did, and only half of them are named Hawke."

"You rose from slavery to become a nobleman in a shemlen city, hunted demons, slew slavers along the coast, and fought hand-to-hand with something not even seen in legends," Paivel reminded him. "You're a hero, Fenris. Your story is more exciting than when Lindiranae fought the Silver Knight. You have multiple victories over many injustices, and those stories should be passed on."

Still, Fenris scoffed at the title, one ear sticking out at an angle. "I'm... not entirely sure I would want my story told," he drawled. Then, mostly joking, he added, "And you do not need to flatter me just because you are seeing my sister."

Varania scowled, but Paivel laughed. "I admit that is part of it, but I am genuinely interested in your story and how you came to be here, as you are. Would you mind indulging a Dalish fool?"

Fenris glanced around, finally spotting Theron giving Natia a piggyback ride on the other side of the camp. "I have become rather adept at indulging Dalish fools, particularly that one. You should be no challenge. Still, I am no story-teller. You might be better served by Varric's version of events, in the end."

Artemis returned with a drink for each of them in either hand, pleased to see Fenris talking so easily with Paivel and his sister. "I come bearing alcohol," he said, sitting next to his husband and handing him his drink. "Are we telling stories? I love stories."

"Tell this man some flattering story about me, Amatus," Fenris encouraged, taking a long sip of his drink. "I'd tell one, but it wouldn't be flattering, and it would all end in blood. Or it would be the one where I almost killed you. Or the other one where I almost killed you." His eyes lit on Paivel. "I'm terrible at this 'hero' thing. I can think of at least two times I've nearly murdered my own husband, by mistake."

"No hero is without faults," Paivel offered, sympathetically. "War started in the Dales when an archer killed a shemlen woman running to greet her elven lover. Not a villain, but a fool."

"Then I am a fool with a hero's stories, instead of a fool with a villain's stories." A short laugh slipped out of Fenris. "That other fool is Anders."

"Then tell me your idiot decisions that were met with praise." The corner of Paivel's mouth turned up.

"Oh, tell him about Danarius and the wedding, Fenris!" Varania pleaded, smile a little too wide. "Or about Hadriana. Goodness, tell _me_ about Hadriana."

"How about the varterral? That's ... legendary and remarkably stupid, and it happened right here on Sundermount." Fenris's fingers tightened on his cup, as he shot Varania a dreadful look.

"Which time?" Artie drawled. "It blurs a bit now. Oh, but I do remember you promising to tear off one of its legs for me that first time. Just so its limbs would be an even number. So romantic." Artemis rested his chin on his palm and batted his eyelashes at Fenris.

"And I nearly got myself trampled for the effort," Fenris huffed. "Mages. Never fight a varterral when you're the only non-mage in a group. Better yet, never fight a varterral."

"And now you're sounding less romantic," Artie teased, patting his knee. "Oh! I know a good story! Varania, Paivel, how much do you know about the Fereldan dowry tradition surrounding goats?"

Paivel and Varania exchanged a look.

Fenris groaned. "I said a _flattering_ story, Amatus."

"Dowry...?" Varania squinted at her brother. "Did you propose with a goat?"

"A bit," Artemis answered, nodding, before Fenris could speak in his own defence. "More specifically, he sent a goat in lace with three sheaves of wheat to my mother. All very traditional. She ate all Anton's socks. The... goat, that is. Not my mother."

Varania snickered behind her hand. "Please tell me _that_ story."

"No. Not that story," Fenris insisted, ears twitching and starting to vibrate.

Varania threw up her hands, exasperated, while Paivel calmly sipped his drink. "Well, tell us _a_ story. Could you tell us how you met?"

Artemis and Fenris took twin sips of their beer, eyes meeting before looking away. "That would be one of the stories where I almost killed him," Fenris answered.

Artemis smiled into a drink as though he considered it a fond memory. "Of all the times I almost died, that was, quite possibly, my favourite."

Fenris groaned. "Get Anton to tell you the story about the goat. I understand it was much more exciting from the Hawke perspective. How about I tell you a wolf story?" he asked, after a moment's thought. "I have read of your trickster god, and while I am often straightforward in my dealings, battering oneself against the walls of Minrathous so rarely ends well."

Paivel leaned back, squinting toward something at the edge of the camp. "The old wolf is looking away, little wolf. Tell me your story."

"It began after Danarius was dead. A magister, you understand -- not a man who can simply disappear without a trace. And while the Magisterium is frequently glad to lose some of its more ... unusual members, this loss, in particular would come straight back to my door, and hunting me would be a sport. Also, he'd left no heirs we knew of. Surely one of his apprentices would have taken his estate, but why permit it?" Fenris smiled subtly, rinsing his mouth with beer. "I went to Varric, whose cousin is a magister."

"The dwarf? I thought dwarves couldn't do magic?" Paivel interrupted.

"They can't, but they can marry it. Perhaps it's more correct to say his cousin married a magister, but the magister accepts him as part of the family. I needed only a small favour." The smile widened. "To this revolutionary, we sent a letter -- to ensure it would be appropriately delivered -- demanding that the estate be sent south to Kirkwall, so that Danarius could set up house, while his hunt continued. Sealed with his own kit, of course. We'd found it in his goods, when we emptied his room."

"Is that how you found them?" Varania asked, after a moment.

"Months later, they arrived on the first ship from Minrathous. Tens of kitchen and linen slaves and several rooms of furnishings. Varric handled the furnishings, and we introduced the elves to Kirkwall. If I'm not mistaken, several of them joined your clan." Fenris sipped his beer, looking terribly smug. "Varric's cousin, of course, has been overjoyed at the mayhem that followed, in Minrathous, when the magister's research was packed up and shipped to ... 'him', removing it from Tevinter, entirely, and potentially removing it from the reach of the Archives, if anything happened to Danarius in his new home. And that is how I tricked the city of Minrathous into gifting me with dozens of elves and a whole estate's worth of furniture and books."

Paivel chuckled and stretched his legs out in front of the fire, shaking his head in amazement. "'Little Wolf', indeed," he said. "Clever as well as strong, like every great hero."

"Fortunate is, perhaps, a better word," Fenris said with a one-shouldered shrug. "I am still not a hero, but I do have my moments." Fenris's smile was wolfish too as he paused to take a sip of his drink.

Drink dangling from her fingertips, Varania watched him, contemplative. "I like that story. Tell us another."

Fenris shot her a flat look, but the corner of his lips turned up. "Were you always this pushy?"

"When I could get away with it." Varania gave him her own unsettling grin, and with that look, from that angle, Artie could see the resemblance. "Tell us another. Or perhaps it's your husband's turn?"

"Oh!" Artie perked up. "Can I tell them about your first mage-floors adventures?"

"That would be unwise," Fenris said, calm but for the way his ears continued to twitch, "since I would be forced to retaliate with an even more embarrassing story about you."

Artemis considered calling his bluff, but he doubted that actually _was_ a bluff. And Artie tended to embarrass himself on a more regular basis than Fenris, making that a war he was likely to lose.

"Spoilsport. I'm getting more cake. And just for that, I'm not sharing."


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gossip from the Gallows and other magical conversation.

The assortment of cakes and sweets was surrounded by an equally broad assortment of mages, all snatching little slices of this and bits of that, like gulls after a shipwreck. One of them waved Artie over. "Hey, you were a free mage! Did you get to eat stuff like this, all the time?"

The mage draped over the top of one of the kegs, with a cup in one hand and a slice of something obviously marchpane and orange in the other hand snorted loudly. "He'd weigh a double sack, if that were true."

Another mage lit fires in the palm of her hand to lightly brown gummy wads of fluffed sugar and almond before eating them. "Don't be stupid, Gilroy. You'd be sick to death long before that happened."

Artemis chuckled at the display but still felt compelled to rearrange the sweets now that they'd been poked at. He allowed himself to neaten two rows before picking up what looked like a small lemon cake. "I didn't get to eat this stuff _all the time_ ," he answered. "Sometimes, on feastdays or our namedays dad would get us something sweet. Usually, though, my older brother would sneak me treats from Maker knows where." He wondered what Cormac was up to at this very moment and hoped he was safe. Or at least not pissing off the locals. "I... suppose you wouldn't have much by way of cake and confections in the tower, would you?"

Gilroy stuffed his face with marchpane, chewing loudly before answering. "More examples of Meredith's cruelty," he said dramatically. "So. Free mage. What's your name? I see you around the building sites, but you're usually with that dwarf and poking at drawings."

"Hawke, right?" said the woman before Artie could answer. When he nodded, she nudged Gilroy with her elbow. "You knew that, you idiot!"

"Ow! Sheena!"

"Artemis, really. Most people call me Artie." He shrugged, still holding a piece of cake and wondering if it would be rude to eat it whole in front of them.

"Some kind of nobleman, right?" Sheena asked. "Your... dad is the viscount?"

"His brother," corrected a yet-unnamed mage, around a mouthful of chocolate cake. "Murray," he introduced himself, pointing at himself with one sticky finger, between bites of cake.

"And what is with your amazing snarly elf bodyguard?" Gilroy asked. "Maker, what do you pay that guy? What do you _feed_ him?"

Murray swallowed. "That's his husband, you idiot. That's something else free mages get to do -- get married."

"No, that's ridiculous," Gilroy scoffed, studying Artemis. "He's kidding, right? You're not allowed to actually marry elves, are you?"

"Or mages..." Sheena sounded as startled as she looked.

"The... snarly elf is very much my husband," Artemis replied, still awkwardly holding his cake. They made him think of Anders, of what he had once said about love and mages, and it made his stomach twist with guilt. He could have easily been one of them. "So... yes, we are allowed. That includes you, now, you realise." He assumed. If not, Artie was going to need to have a word with Cullen. Or at least with his brother who would have a word with Cullen.

Gilroy paused in his chewing, gaze turning inward. Then he smacked Sheena's arm to get her attention. "Hear that, Sheena? Wanna get married?"

"Not to you, I don't," Sheena said, reaching for another sweet. Gilroy shrugged at Artie as if to say 'I tried.'

Artemis finally took that as his cue to eat his cake, only for Murray to address him again as he chewed. 

"So you've never been part of a circle, right?" Murray asked, to which Artie hummed. "How'd you learn to do all that then?" With a jut of his chin, he indicated the construction site. "You flattened everything like it was nothing! Just... one gesture and _fwoomp_." He cut both hands before him to illustrate said flattening. "That was incredible."

It took Artie a moment to remember to swallow his cake. "It... what do you mean?"

"That _power_!" Gilroy enthused, before stuffing more marchpane and jam in his mouth.

"What he said," Murray agreed. "I mean, it's Kirkwall. Force is a speciality around here. We can all move furniture or books, but that's... I've never seen anyone do _that_. It's intense. I'm really kind of impressed."

"There's some clerical stuff from Starkhaven that I picked up from Alain," Sheena said, after a moment. "The force in that is tiny and precise. You can sort paper with it. On the other end, there's people like... well, us, really. We can move blocks and assemble them according to the plans, but that's still not... You move a block, that's maybe two or three sack weight. It's not that much. I can lift about one and a half, which is part of why those arches go so fast. But, you're levelling the ground. You're hitting an enormous area with enough force to compress the earth until it stops shifting. I heard it takes days to do that by hand, for even one building."

Artemis listened, quiet and disquieted. The cake felt thick against the back of his throat, and he washed it down with beer before letting himself say anything. Force mages. He'd known they were all force mages, like him, but less like him than he'd thought. Thanks to his father, he knew other force mages had better control, but his father's magic had had no less strength behind it. 

"And that is... a... desired trait?" The three mages looked at him like he was daft, and Artie ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends. "See, I can't do that clerical work. I can't lift those blocks. Or, I suppose I should say, I can lift them and move them, just... not always in the direction I want or as, er, gently as I want. There is nothing gentle in my magic."

Artie gestured helplessly at the new building Natia had been inspecting earlier. "Look at that stonework. Look at how precise and _neat_ it is. I can't... Maker, I can't tell you how many times I accidentally sent my brother through the wall, back when we were sharing a room. I've knocked over statues, broken furniture. I've... um." It occurred to Artie that they didn't need to hear his life story, and he intercepted more words with more beer.

"You can work on that, you know," Sheena offered, eyebrows raised.

"Yeah, maybe that's not something you get outside the tower, but there's all kinds of stuff they make us do to learn precision and control." Gilroy nodded and grabbed something chocolate coated. He couldn't work out what it was, at a glance, but into his mouth it went. "I had to learn to dance flame up and down my arm."

"Those stupid ice bobbles," Murray muttered, and Sheena groaned.

"The ice was terrible. You know they had me do a series of dragons for my final test, before I could have my Harrowing? Dragons! Ten of them! Made of ice no bigger than my fist!" Sheena shook her head. "Still, it's possible. I heard there was someone on our floor who had to light an entire chandelier with individual lightning strikes for each candle."

"Do you have any elemental skills, or is that something else they don't teach outside the tower?" Gilroy asked, still trying to identify the filling of the sweet he'd eaten.

"A bit of stone and lightning," Artie replied with a shrug. "Primal magic." He tried to picture lighting just one candle with a lightning spell and bit back his hysterical laughter at the thought. "Mostly stone. I generally, uh... throw it around."

Gilroy hummed, licking the last of his sweet's filling from his teeth before speaking. "But you can summon it too? And shape it?"

Artie nodded. "I summon it, shape it into a projectile, and then throw it around."

Sheena guffawed and slapped Murray's hand away from the tart she'd been reaching for. "Well, at least you're consistent. Either way, remind me not to piss you off. But -- Artie, right? -- have you ever tried just summoning and shaping it? Not so much throwing as holding?"

With a wave of his hand, Artie cast, pulling sheets of rock from the ground and the air, assembling them around him like a shield. "A... friend taught me this. Or something similar."

Murray eyed the rocks and nodded. "Rock armour. So, your go-tos have to do with repelling and protecting? Okay. I think I see the issue. You learned how to _fight_ with magic, not how to control it."

Artemis blinked at them, letting the rock slip back away into nothing. "Do you not?"

"Oh sure we do," Gilroy cut in. "There's quite a bit of that, but we're in a tower. Not much space to throw things around in. We more learn how to fight _in theory_."

"I see." Artie moved around them to get to the barrel, filling his mug again. Last drink, he told himself. Limits. "We -- my siblings and I -- learned more than theory fairly early."

"Siblings? There's more than one mage in your family?" Murray's eyes rounded. "And you fought things together?"

Gilroy finally sat up. "Wait, wait, you're from Ferelden, aren't you. That accent... Did you learn to fight in the Blight? Did you fight _darkspawn_?"

"Andraste's flaming knickers," Sheena breathed, the tart hanging loosely from her fingers. "No wonder you're ... different. You'd need that kind of power."

Artemis was glad he'd refilled his drink. "Four siblings, two of them mages, plus an apostate father," he answered. Just the mention of darkspawn made the air seem colder, and Artie rubbed at his arm. "We lived in Lothering, before it burned. My non-magey idiot of a little brother -- the one who isn't viscount -- went to Ostagar, and I... followed. To keep him out of trouble, but also because I thought, you know, what's the point of having magic like this if I can't use it to smack darkspawn into other darkspawn?" His smile was too wide to be genuine.

"Smacking darkspawn into other darkspawn. And now we know how the Blight was defeated," Murray joked, trying to tilt the keg Gilroy was sitting on enough to get another drink out of it. "Is that how the Hero of Ferelden defeated the Archdemon, I wonder, by bludgeoning it with ogres? I heard she was a mage, too, from that tower in the lake, down there."

"Don't be an idiot, Murray," Gilroy laughed. "It was some weird warden ritual about sacrificing a baby. I heard that's why the King's brother abdicated."

"What Twaddle and Horsefeathers, over here, mean is that you should probably try shaping stone, if you want to get good at something other than throwing it at things. It doesn't have to be anything really detailed, first. Maybe just help out the stonecarvers with basic shapes, first, and then try making stone armour that looks like armour. I mean, nobody's expecting you to do this, on your first try," she said, drawing ice out of the air in delicate swirls like a painted ocean on the side of an Orlesian cake. "But, with the power you've got, if you could control it, you'd... Tevinter might have cause for concern."

"And then you'd be smacking magisters into other magisters," Gilroy offered with a grin, rolling a ball of flame down his arm, without lighting his sleeve on fire, to catch it in his hand.

Artie glanced back at his husband, still deep in conversation with Varania and Paivel. He rather liked the sound of that. "As opposed to smacking the one magister into a wall," he said with an innocent smile between sips. "Happened. At my wedding. But that's... an interesting thought. Dad was really more focused on teaching me to turn my magic off, when needed, than finesse. On the run from templars, with three mage kids, that was more of a priority."

"It will take time," Sheena assured him. "You'll get frustrated and possibly throw a few rocks through a few walls, but it works. Hey, who knows, maybe you have a hidden talent as a sculptor! You could have garden ornaments for the elves."

Artemis didn't want to know what sort of garden ornaments Theron would go for. And then Artie considered lining their own garden with naked sculptures of Fenris and decided this might be a worthy pursuit. "You have given me much to think about," he said.

"You've given us a few things to think about, too... A wedding!" Gilroy looked giddy at the idea.

"A wedding at which a magister was apparently smacked into a wall," Murray pointed out. "Any tips for smacking people into walls in ways that really make a difference?"

"Gentlemen, we have cake," Sheena pointed out. "And money. And that means we could go back to town and buy more cakes. Or that salad with the pickled olives that everyone talks about in those old Tevinter books."


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anton gets laid. Bran has regrets. Oh, so many regrets.

"Anton, this is your office. It doesn't even have a lock on the door. This is absurd." Cullen's protests were half-hearted, as Anton backed him into the edge of the desk with heated kisses.

"There are two sets of doors. And outside the second one, there's Bran. Nobody's getting in here," Anton reassured his husband, making quick work of a few buckles. "But, we're never home at the same time, any more, unless we're sleeping, and I miss you. I've got to remind myself I have a husband, and a terribly handsome one, and that I haven't just been pretending for the sake of the office."

" _You_ are ridiculous," Cullen pointed out, surrendering to the fact that he was going to end up out of his armour, in the middle of the viscount's office. Being married to the viscount did not make that any less terrible of an idea, he was sure, but this seemed to be the way with them. Always in inappropriate places, at strange times. He'd gotten used to it, over the years, but it still made him nervous.

"And ridiculous is what you married," Anton replied. "That and ridiculously gorgeous, which we both know I also am. Or do you need reminding too?" 

"I suppose it wouldn't hurt to jog my memory."

There was quite a bit less to peel off Anton, and yet Cullen's skin met air first, his armour forming a gleaming pile on the rug. Anton always was deadly efficient when he needed to be.

"I suppose any protest I make now will sound hypocritical," Cullen said, finally tugging Anton's shirt over his head. He would never understand how Anton made these ridiculous Orlesian shirts look good, with all their embellishments and ruffles. But Cullen did know that he preferred those shirts in a rumpled pile next to his armour.

"Indeed," Anton hummed. "Best not to make them." 

Cullen's next response was swallowed in a kiss.

Anton's hands were quick, sliding up under Cullen's shirt to caress the solid muscle of his chest, before whipping the shirt off and leaving it to join his own. "Mmm, I had forgotten how terribly handsome my husband was. My imagination wasn't giving me a quarter of this, and I have an exceptional imagination."

"As long as you're not imagining dragons, I think we're all right," Cullen murmured, pulling Anton in for another kiss. 

 _Boots_ , Anton remembered, suddenly, and then discarded the thought. There was no sense in taking everything off, since they were just going to have to put it right back on. "Tell me, Commander," he purred, "will I be plundering your booty, this afternoon, or do you think your holy sword will get the better of me?"

Cullen turned bright red, laughing. "Those are both excellent ideas, but do we really have time for a duel?"

"Ah, then you will have to choose!" Anton crowed.

"I think it's your booty being plundered, today, because I still have to walk back to the Gallows, after this." Cullen rolled his eyes, a smile threatening the corners of his mouth, as he kneaded Anton's bare flesh.

"And I still have to sit in my office. Ah well, I made sure the chair was cushioned for a reason." Holding Cullen by his still-clothed hip, Anton ground forward, pressing him back into the desk. Smirking, he asked, "So, the Knight-Commander has the naughty viscount at his mercy. Whatever shall he do with him?"

Cullen knew there would come a day when he would stop thinking about Meredith and Dumar when Anton referred to them by their titles. And he was close, but there was still a moment of displacement.

"Oh, the viscount has been naughty, has he?" Cullen indulged his husband, pushing his hips back far enough to pull at their laces. "What dastardly deeds has he been up to then? Has he been making the Orlesians cry?"

"I've been making them weep great rivers behind their masks," Anton purred. "But I've always done that." His breath hitched as Cullen's hand found more bare flesh, cupping him inside his trousers.

"How dastardly of you! How dreadfully unseemly!" Cullen's hand squeezed and stroked, gently. "I shall have no choice but to spill all your secrets out across your desk, for anyone to see! Let them judge the doings of their viscount!"

"Shit, hang on." Anton leaned to the side and reached around Cullen to sweep together a pile of papers that he tucked under the cover of a law book. "I am absolutely not allowed to come on those. Sebastian would invade, for sure."

"Is he at it again?" Cullen asked, hand stilling until Anton pressed against it.

"It was rumoured he'd start a march toward us, next week, but my informant tells me he's decided to spend the money seeing to the needs of his city, instead. Nothing like public works to get in the way of an invasion." Anton laughed and nibbled at Cullen's collarbone. "I suppose I should be grateful to my sister. I can't imagine we'd have held him off this long if she didn't mean to marry that blithering cad. But, enough about things that are not your incredibly sexy body."

"Even if those things are yours?" Cullen asked, turning them around to press Anton against the desk.

"Oh, no, you're very definitely allowed to go on at length about that. And go on with length. And come in with length. These are all acceptable uses for my incredibly sexy body." Anton grinned at Cullen, entirely remorseless.

"Is that so?" Cullen asked, neglecting to roll his eyes at his ridiculous and ridiculously gorgeous husband. "Are there any other acceptable uses for your body that I should know about? Or perhaps preferable uses?" His hands ran over Anton's skin as he spoke, tracing lines and contours he knew so well. Except for that tension there, in his shoulder, which Cullen would blame on all the damn paperwork Anton now had to do. His shoulder had a matching knot, and Cullen regretted that this... 'meeting' would have to be quick, that he couldn't take his time working out all the stiffness his husband had to be feeling.

There was time, at least, to work out this other stiffness, Cullen decided as he gave Anton's length an encouraging squeeze.

"Oh, if we're discussing _preferable_ uses," Anton said as Cullen helped him work his trousers down past his hips, "it's a shame I don't have my syrups. Though that might be more of a use for your body, since you make such a delectable dessert."

"Getting syrup on your paperwork might not be the best idea. Perhaps we should save that activity for home, where Mintaka can interrupt us and try to eat all the syrup on his own."

"I'm putting the dog in the yard, if we get the syrup out at home," Anton decided, untying the front of Cullen's trousers and sinking to his knees. "Remind me to get another bottle of oil in here," he said, wrapping his lips around Cullen's knob.

Gasping. Cullen leaned forward, catching himself on the edge of the desk. The position was awkward, but Anton's mouth was incredible. Anton's mouth was always incredible, but somehow moreso in awkward and dangerous situations, and Cullen wasn't sure if that said more about Anton or more about him. He was sure there was something he was supposed to say, though, other than 'please' and 'yes', but it had totally slipped his mind. Oil. Anton had said something about oil.

Which, after a moment of wholehearted devotion to Cullen's 'sword of mercy', Anton remembered he had in his boot. Always a tiny sachet of oil, in case of emergencies, like this one. Still, any excuse to lavish affection on any part of Cullen's body was worth the effort.

At first, Cullen was too focused on Anton's tongue to notice the sachet being slipped into his palm, a distraction Anton noticed, judging by the upward twitch of the corners of his lips. Then Cullen connected Anton's words to the object in his hand, only to be distracted again when cold air hit his knob. Oil. Anton. These were two things that went well together on such occasions. 

Anton gave Cullen's knob a squeeze as he rose to his feet. "All right, Commander?" he asked, his smirk maddening.

"Wonderful, viscount." With an arm around his hips, Cullen hoisted Anton onto the desk, and Anton squeaked and laughed as Cullen attacked his throat. "Should I bring by some oil next time I 'visit'?" he asked before pulling back enough to tear open the sachet.

"Should I be concerned about what kind of oil it would be, if you're bringing it?" Anton teased, crossing his ankles behind Cullen's neck. "I mean, I'm not sure I need what you use on your armour in any more interesting places than it already ends up."

"That's horrifying. No." Cullen leaned down again and bumped his forehead against Anton's. "I am-- I am not bringing machine oil for... this. Maybe a nice Tevinter olive oil, though. We can afford that, right?"

"Even with us picking up a third of the reconstruction. I promise you, we can afford the important things. We can always afford the important things. And if we can't afford imported oil, I'll just have to win it." Anton gasped and canted his hips as Cullen's fingers slid into him.

"The viscount, gambling for oil?" Cullen purred, taking his time to tease and stroke his insides. After all these years, he knew what Anton liked, and he knew what made Anton squirm. "Just so he can keep a bottle in his office? The scandal!"

"If the people of Kirkwall weren't expecting scandal, then they clearly voted for the wrong man," Anton said between shaky breaths. "Considering the runner-up was Varric, I think the people _want_ scandal." 

He let out a liquid sound, a shameless sound, loud enough to carry through the room, just to see the red flush to Cullen's cheeks. Fingers still moving, Cullen glanced back at the door, and Anton laughed. 

"No one can hear us!" Anton assured him.

"Bran might."

"He's heard worse things." With a hand on his cheek, Anton turned Cullen's face back towards him and pulled him down into a lingering kiss. His breath hitched as Cullen's fingers crooked and stretched and slowly slid free.

"I'm sure I don't want to know," Cullen muttered against Anton's lips, as he lined himself up and dipped in teasingly.

Anton made a frustrated sound, heels digging uselessly into Cullen's shoulderblades. "And we're sure I'm the naughty one, today? This isn't a story of a wicked tease of a Knight-Commander who makes his poor lover beg for more?"

"Oh, if there's going to be begging, maybe I'll hold off." Cullen cackled and nipped at Anton's lips.

"Damn you," Anton swore, writhing and trying to push himself back against Cullen. "Oh, please, my darling dastard, my craven commander, impale me on that sword of yours!" This last was louder. In fact, Anton was almost certain that Bran could hear it. He'd apologise, later, but now was the time for fighting dirty.

A pink flush spread across Cullen's chest. "Craven!? You take that back, or I'll keep my sword to myself!"

"Why withhold your sword when you can sheathe it?" Anton countered. "Perhaps you are less craven and more cantankerous, Commander? Is that a c-word more to your liking?"

"I have another c-word right here," Cullen groused, dipping in deeper before pulling back, still determinedly teasing. Anton's growl of frustration made him smile. "And that sounded less like begging and more like commanding. And sassing."

"I cannot help my nature," Anton said, melodramatically. "But I do beg your forgiveness. And for your mighty c-word!"

Cullen snorted a laugh against Anton's skin, nipping at a collarbone and licking into the hollow of his throat. He wondered how he'd been fortunate enough to marry this fool.

"Well, since you ask so politely..." he said, finally pushing in but agonisingly slowly.

Anton panted and moaned, palming his own knob, as Cullen eased into him. He squirmed against the desk in ways he knew would make him look irresistibly good and threw in a few of those little desperate sounds that drove Cullen mad.

A thin trickle of sweat ran down Cullen's back. Anton was terribly appealing, of course, but there was something off... "Is that-- Are you doing impressions of Jethann!?"

"What?" Anton blinked and sputtered. Jethann had taught him a few ways to present himself as a distraction -- always a good thing to have on hand in certain sorts of situations, of course, but he hadn't thought Cullen, of all people, would notice. "Impressions of Jethann... Are you saying I look like prostitute? Your own husband?" Anton struggled to look entirely scandalised at the idea. "And what've you been doing looking so closely at Jethann?"

"No one has to look closely at Jethann. He could be behind a person and in the next room, and they'd still know just what he was doing!" Cullen protested, flush spreading down his chest. "And you -- no, of course you don't look like a prostitute! That is... I mean..."

"Curses. I'll just have to try harder." Anton burst out laughing.

Cullen buried his own breathless cackles against Anton's chest. "You are ridiculous," he said again. "And is that the goal? To look like a prostitute?" He stopped the teasing there, realising any more could put him in hot water.

"I told you the viscount was naughty," Anton purred, running a finger down the bridge of Cullen's nose just to watch his face scrunch. "Don't worry. I'm worth more than all of Kirkwall could afford. I make an exception for you."

"Does that mean I get a discount?" Cullen countered, rocking into his husband again.

"Only on Marketday and holidays. Lucky you that today's Marketday."

"Lucky me," Cullen agreed with a breathless laugh, bending to kiss Anton, holding Anton's hips as he set up a rhythm. For a while, that was all he knew, the slide of skin against his, the heat of Anton wrapped around him, the aching sounds that spilled from Anton's lips.

The antechamber and two sets of closed doors muffled a lot of the sound from outside, but that was unmistakeably Aveline's voice, and she seemed to be getting short with Bran. Not that Anton cared, right then. Whatever she wanted could wait a moment or six.

Outside the second set of doors, Bran looked pained. "You could, I'm sure, force your way into his office, but I strongly advise against it, right now."

"He's going to see me," Aveline huffed. "And he's going to sign off on this. I've been trying to put it in his hands all week!"

"You'll want to wait for the Knight-Commander to take his leave, then." Bran crossed his arms, still blocking entrance to the antechamber.

"I don't care what Cullen wants! Cullen sees him every night!" Aveline roared, only to have the next sound in the hall be one from inside the viscount's office.

"Oh, Commander! No mercy! Strike me down with your sword!"

Aveline froze, disgust blooming across her face.

Bran's expression didn't change. "As I was saying, Captain..."

Aveline shoved the papers into Bran's chest. "Fine. I am not dealing with this. Make sure he sees it, or someone will end up on the business end of an _actual_ sword." 

Another sound filtered through the doors, and Aveline paused long enough to give those doors a withering look before storming off. Bran could still hear the echo of her boots as Anton made more pleas Bran was determined to forget. Dragon noises. Something about dragon noises, and Bran did not need to know. Instead, Bran neatened the papers, tucked them under his arm, and considered asking for a raise.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artemis decides to decorate the gardens. Orana and Evantia are terribly entertained.

Orana sat on a lounger, braiding flowers into Evantia's hair and watching Messere Artemis's latest ventures in the magic of stone. "Pull left, messere! The arm's coming loose!"

Evie giggled and held up a slice of cheese for Orana, as she watched the stone smooth, evening out over the cracks as the weight shifted. Lord Hawke wasn't very good at this, but she'd heard it was a recent whim -- something about the construction up on the mountain. At least, this time, he'd managed something mostly elf-shaped, even if the ears were over-large and stuck out at funny angles. She thought it looked a bit more like a deer than an elf, really, but what did she know about sculpture? Her business was flowers. "Messere, look here!" she called out, bending one arm, as Orana took the cheese from her. "It's like this! Here's the shape!"

Artie muttered a few choice swears under his breath, resisting the urge to throw the damn thing into the nearest tree. "Thanks, Evie," he said, one hand twisting in his hair as he looked back and forth between stone and elf. 

That certainly made more sense, the way the whole body bent with the motion. Still, knowing what he wanted the stone to do and getting the stone to actually do it were two separate matters. The ears had been a nightmare, with their delicate points. He'd accidentally broken them off a few times trying to get them to taper, and they still didn't look quite right.

Artemis was rather proud of the nose, though. He'd only blocked out the basic shape, but he'd gotten the sweep of its bridge in one try. He still felt ridiculous and frustrated, but this was progress. When he'd started, he could barely make a cube without crushing the stone.

And now to work on the curve of that shoulder. Steady, gentle pressure to smooth out the stone. Steady... steady... _fuck_. Another piece broke off, and this time Artie's swears weren't muttered. 

Laughing, Orana untangled herself from Evie and stood. "If I hold it for you, can you put it back on, messere? You were almost there. You shouldn't have to start over."

"You can't lift that, yourself," Evie scoffed, popping a cheese ball in her mouth. Those were good, and she'd have to ask where Orana had ordered them from. Probably Orlais. Fancy things like that were almost always from far away. "I'll help. Don't worry, Lord Hawke, you've nearly got it this time! Just let us get this piece in the back for you."

Climbing up the base of the statue, the two women worked the broken pieces of the shoulder back into place, one fragment at a time. It had come out all at once, but then it had hit the ground. After a bit of shuffling and trading pieces, listening to the creaking of the arm, they got it as good as it was likely to get.

"Fix it quick!" Orana called down. "The whole arm's getting weak!"

"Right." Artemis shook out his hands and cast again, almost too gently, at first. He focused on the seam of rock where the pieces met, and slowly the stone morphed under Orana and Evie's fingers, sealing over the gap. 

"That's perfect, messere," Orana said, beaming. She and Evie eased back, slowly letting go, but Artemis was almost afraid to. Yet, when he stopped casting, the rock stayed in place, fully healed. Artie finally let out the breath he was holding.

"I have quite a few words for this," Artie said, gesturing at the sculpture, "but 'perfect' is not among them." He stood back to better made out the piece as a whole. There was so much more he could tweak and shift, but his fingertips were starting to get a bit numb. Best to leave it for now, before he accidentally knocked the entire thing over.

"Have you been studying the new sculpture on Sundermount?" Fenris asked, from the doorway, a bottle of imported apple juice in one hand and a pair of glasses in the other. "Ghilan'nain, perhaps? I can't wait to see what you do with the horns."

Evie opened her mouth and Orana covered it, the two of them staring at Fenris in snickering horror. But, they said nothing, easing back toward their cheese and wine.

Fenris watched them inch away. "I'm wrong, aren't I?" he asked, circling the statue. The stone looked much smoother than it had on any of Artie's earlier attempts. This, at least, was approximately elf-shaped in an intentional-seeming way, rather than looking like a stalagmite that had naturally taken a body-like form. These wouldn't be lining the streets of Val Royeaux, any time soon, but Artemis seemed to be improving quickly. On the other hand, what did Fenris really know about sculpture or sculptors. Or mages, really. For all that he'd spent his whole life with mages, he really understood so little about them.

Artemis cleared his throat and tried to will away the embarrassed flush suffusing his cheeks. "No, of... course it's Ghilan'nain. What else could it possibly be?" He laughed nervously and glared the women into silence.

Fenris didn't say that in this shape, the statue could be a lot of things. He glanced at Orana to find her biting her lips to keep from laughing.

"I have missed something," Fenris said, narrowing his eyes. "I have never had much an eye for art, Amatus. Am I terribly far off the mark?" He stepped back to stand next to Artemis, tilting his head and squinting at the stone from his husband's angle.

"It... is an elf," Artemis said with a sheepish shrug. "In theory. It's not terribly defined just yet, so I could... see where you'd make that mistake." He rubbed his hands together to try to get the feeling back.

Evie finally ducked out from under Orana's hand. "Oh please, can I tell him?"

"No."

Fenris examined the lines again. "Is it Evantia? It is, isn't it? I hadn't known you were working with models. The curve, here, is very attractive. Very feminine. I'm sorry, Amatus. I don't know the words to talk about this properly."

Evie started to laugh, burying her face in Orana's shoulder.

"Evie definitely posed for it," Orana confirmed, nodding, as Fenris offered Artemis a glass of juice.

"She's a very pretty woman, and I'm sure she'll look lovely in our garden." And yet, Fenris was still sure he'd missed something, somehow -- that this wasn't Evie at all. He stared at the statue, waiting for it to suddenly make sense, but the epiphany didn't come. "And to think, I expected you to decorate with Theron... It's... it's not Theron, is it? I am relatively certain Theron is less... ah... curvy in the ... chest."

"It's not Theron," Artie said, voice muffled by the hand covering his face. This was it. This was the moment where he went the way of Anders and spontaneously combusted. If his face got any hotter, he would have to. "It is... also not a woman." He finally slid his hand off his face. "It's not done. I keep trying to get the shape right, but..." He gestured helplessly. "It's hard. Sometimes the stone doesn't cooperate or I push too hard or not enough, and I just... really want to throw the thing through a wall. Can I throw it through a wall?"

"Best not," Fenris said. "You know you'll only end up cleaning it up."

Artemis grumbled and sipped his juice. "Anyway, as I was trying to explain to the ladies... those are not boobs. Those are muscles. Really badly sculpted muscles."

Fenris took a sip and then set his own glass aside, with the bottle. "I was going to wash, but perhaps you need me here, first?" He'd been assisting Aveline with some trouble on the coast, for the weekend. Bandits, though, were nowhere near as compelling as his husband. He slid his arms around Artemis, kissing the back of one shoulder. "Maybe you need a different model, for a little while? Evantia has lovely arms, but... you are having some trouble with the rest of her."

Stepping back, he unfastened a few buckles and peeled off his leathers to the waist, folding them roughly, before he dropped them. Behind him Evie whistled and applauded.

"And you live here?" she said to Orana. "How do you manage?"

"I'm not that interested in swords, Evie," Orana reminded her, cuddling closer. "There are much better things than Messere Fenris out here."

"I sincerely disagree," Artemis said, openly ogling Fenris. He figured it was his right as Fenris's husband. He cleared his throat and set down his juice. "You know, I have been having trouble with the whole sculpture, not just the chest." His eyebrows tilted suggestively.

"I'm sure," Fenris said with a slow smirk. "But I was thinking we could save that kind of posing for after we send Orana and Evie out for the night." He gave the ladies a pointed look.

"Hear that, Evie?" said Orana. "We can go to that Nevarran restaurant you like."

Evantia hummed, still appreciating the view. "Yes, but it's still a bit early for supper."


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit from Varania, who is everything a sister should be.

Shaking his head, Artemis directed Fenris where and how to stand. Evie resumed her pose long enough for Fenris to copy it. And, really, that cleared up a few things, the way the lines of shoulders and chest knit together, where the waist narrowed. Looking at Fenris, Artemis was reminded of why he'd chosen his husband as his subject in the first place. His elf was already a work of art.

"Okay. Um. Just try to hold still for a bit?" Artemis said as he stretched his fingers. He resumed casting, the magic trickling instead of rushing to his fingers now.

Holding still was something Fenris was genuinely excellent at. Thousands of days spent motionless and naked, at the side of another mage, for much less entertaining purposes. This was, after all, his husband -- his mage -- crafting something in his image. That was new. He didn't think anyone had made art of him, aside from the bounty posters. And this was definitely no bounty poster. He'd been found. He belonged here, in Kirkwall, with this mage who ... really asked so little of him, and gave so much.

"That's impressive," Evie whispered, after a few minutes. "How does he do that?"

"We're Tevinter. Things are different, there." Orana shrugged, never having considered that standing perfectly still might be something not everyone could do. She scooped a bit of soft cheese onto a slice of apple and pressed it against Evie's lips, only to get her fingers bit, playfully.

"This is good. Is it Orlesian?" Evie asked, eyes still tracing the lines of lyrium along Fenris's back.

"Antivan," Orana replied, getting some for herself.

Fenris felt himself start to fade, still perfectly aware of every sound around him, every motion, but less focused on them. In his mind, he could see the garden done in statues of himself and Theron, with Artemis stretched in the grass in the shadows of them. Not the worst design. They'd have to rearrange some of the furniture, though, he thought.

It was almost unnerving how still Fenris held himself while Artie worked. For the short time she'd posed, Evie had been fidgety, shifting her weight and pausing to scratch her nose. But Fenris was perfect and perfectly still.

Slowly, the statue changed as the stone expanded, shrank, shifted, the movements less violent and jerky than they had been before. Evie and Orana watched, rapt, trading bites of cheese and fruit, holding their breaths when the stone moved too fast or a piece started to crumble.

"Yay!" said Evie suddenly, startling Artemis out of his concentration and making the whole sculpture shift slightly clockwise. At his questioning look, she pointed. "He no longer has boobs."

Orana hid a snicker behind her shoulder and quieted her with more cheese.

"Okay, yes, that deserves a yay," Artemis admitted, pleased with the overall shape of the statue. The ears were still a bit ridiculous, but...

"Fenris? Artemis? Orana?" A voice echoed through the empty house, eventually spilling into the yard, followed by Varania. "Oh, here you are! I just thought I'd come by and..." She paused as Orana and Evie pointed further into the yard. Her eyes followed and landed on her brother, shirtless, in some heroic pose.

"Are you kidding me?" Varania muttered, before the cackles overtook her.

Fenris blinked, ears jutting at awkward angles as he became aware of another voice behind him that was neither Evantia nor Orana. Still, he dared not turn around. Artemis seemed to have finally gotten into a rhythm, and he didn't want to disrupt that.

"That's your brother, right?" Evie asked Varania. "Maker, is your entire family good looking?"

For a moment, Artie stood as still as Fenris. Slowly, he eased his magic away from the stone, the excess of energy tingling under his skin. "Your brother is helping me practice," he said, one hand twisting in his hair. "He is... being a very big help."

"I'm sure," Varania guffawed. She eyed the vaguely elf-shaped stone. "Are those _ears_?"

"Yes," Artemis said, looking skyward.

"Elf ears?"

"Yes."

Varania gave the statue another appraising look. "Are you sure?"

"It's -- I'm doing the best I can!" Artie sputtered, face and ears red again. 

Orana offered Varania an apple slice. "You should have seen it back when it had boobs."

Artemis turned a helpless look Fenris's way, only to find his husband still posing, perfectly still. "Fen. Love. You can relax for a minute. Defend my artwork to your sister."

Fenris turned, eyes flashing, took a deep breath and then just looked confused. That wasn't a command, and even if it was, he didn't have to obey it. "It's much better than it was," he assured Artemis. "We can work on the ears, tomorrow. They are... still better than the fragments on the floor, last week."

Varania watched her brother's face shift -- she'd seen that look time and time again, among the Tevinter refugees. But, this wasn't the time to say something about it. There was no purpose to embarrassing Fenris. "On the ... floor?" she asked, taking the slice of apple from Orana.

"They looked like wings," Evantia filled in. "Like some great swooping thing."

"I suggested Messere might wish to attempt geese. They were truly very good wings," Orana said, with a smile.

"Thanks for the support," Artie drawled. "I am trying to work on my... finesse, when it comes to magic. It's still difficult to do delicate details, and the way your ears taper..." He shrugged helplessly. "It's the same reason the sculpture doesn't have fingers." And he _liked_ Fenris's fingers and Fenris's ears. He was determined to get them right in time. 

Fenris walked to Artie's side again, looking a little less wild-eyed as he wrapped an arm around his husband's waist. "You are improving," he repeated. "Do you remember teaching me how to read and write? And how often I wanted to throw the inkpot into the wall in frustration?" He kissed Artemis's cheek and watched his expression soften. "If you had patience enough for that, you have patience enough for this."

"I am starting to understand your frustration a little better," Artie sighed, patting Fenris's arm. "So, Varania, did you need something or are you here to visit and add to my mortification by elves?"

"Oh, I am really much more interested in mortifying my brother," Varania said. "I'd apologise for mortifying you in the process, but I think it's part of my familial duty."

"I am beginning to understand the ... peril? Of having a sister." Fenris smiled wryly at Artemis. "When I was just borrowing yours, I never understood the true dangers, but now that yours has helped me recover my own... Perhaps I should not have been so quick to laugh!" He raised an eyebrow at Varania. "What are you doing here, besides being horrified at my admirers and their affections for my shirtless condition? If you're free the rest of the afternoon, I could remove my trousers, and pose again."

Varania's hands flew up, defensively. "However many years I haven't seen your spindly partridge-legs, I could do with more!" She laughed. "My purpose, whatever its side benefits, was to remind you of Paulla's birthday, next Washday. I'm sure she'd very much like to see her uncles for the occasion. In fact, she's been asking all week if you'll be there and if she can have honey cakes."

"I'll make the honey cakes," Orana volunteered. "Such a sweet girl! I always like the opportunity to spend an afternoon with her."

"Well, her aunties are welcome to come to the party, as well," Varania invited. "I think Theron and his little ones are coming down the mountain, as well."

"It seems you'll be able to slip off for your own party, when you've had enough of the children, Amatus," Fenris joked, squeezing Artemis's hip. "I'll be there," he assured Varania. "And I'll bring my husband, but I decline any blame if he slips off for a few drinks with the fathers at the party, after an hour or two. He's just not cut out for this sort of thing, I think, but he does try."

"And it matters so much to us that you do," Varania said, accepting another sliver of apple and cheese from Orana. "It's good to have a family, again. Especially now that it has a chance to mean something."


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unexpected guests from the sea. The noble council is much less amused than Anton and Varric.

Across the table, Anton tried not to make eye-contact with Merrill. Lord Tolbert was off on another one of his rants, and Anton was determinedly keeping a neutral look on his face. He never would have thought all those year playing card games would make him a better politician. Yet he knew that if he saw his own boredom reflected in Merrill's face, even he might not be able to keep up the facade.

In the end, Lady LeClair lost her patience first. "Tolbert, do sit down," she said. "We are going to need to open some windows if you are to introduce any more hot air into the room." She fanned her face with one hand while he blustered, his face turning tomato-red. "And none of what you say addresses the real problem, that monstrosity the elves are building on Sundermount."

Anton watched Merrill bristle out of the corner of his eye, and he readied to step in, either to calm her down or to back her up, depending on how this exploded.

But then the doors slammed open, startling the council, and Anton reached for the knife at his belt instead.

"Honey, I'm home!" Isabela bellowed into the collection of surprised nobles, as she swaggered across the room to lean on the back of Anton's chair. "What no kisses for me? Your husband stealing all of those?"

"Remove your filthy hands from Viscount Hawke at once!" La Chapelle demanded, her eyes narrowing angrily. "Who are you!?"

"This is an old friend, Lady La Chapelle. Captain Isabela, of the Eastern Seas. She's handled many shipping concerns for my family," Anton said, with a wink, pressing a kiss to Isabela's cheek. "And you think my kisses for you are a limited resource, even after all this time? Maybe they are, but it would take more than Cullen to exhaust them. What are you doing here, and... why now?"

A pained sound came from the antechamber, and Anton twisted to look around Isabela's arm. Bran clung to a wall, looking sickly, and a Warden hovered around him, looking concerned and apologising, every few seconds.

"And what did you do to Bran?"

"He wouldn't let me in!" Isabela protested. "I'm sure he'll be fine."

A prolonged and pain-filled wheeze said otherwise.

"I'm sorry," the Warden kept saying, hands palm-out but not landing. "I didn't think she'd go right for -- No man deserves that." He peered into the room and gave the table of appalled nobles a smile and a wave. "Hello! Sorry for interrupting. Just pretend we're not here."

"This is outrageous!" huffed Lord Bonnaire.

"No, _this_ is outrageous," said Izzy, taking off her new feathered hat and setting it on Anton's head, "which is how I like it. As for what I'm doing here, are you not reason enough?"

"Generally, yes," Anton agreed. "But for you? I don't know."

Then Izzy caught sight of Merrill's beaming face and squealed, leaving Anton so she could hug the elf. "You're right," she teased. "I'm here for Merrill."

"I feel so honoured!" Merrill laughed, ignoring the frosty glares from her fellow nobles.

"But really," Isabela went on, arms still clasped over Merrill's shoulders, "We're on our way to cause trouble in Antiva. Thought we might as well stop in and cause some trouble here too."

"No, no, we're trying to _fix_ trouble in Antiva," the Warden protested from the hallway. "Fix, not cause. I'm beginning to worry you don't know there's a difference."

"Is there really a difference?" Anton asked, laughing. "It always seems like nothing gets better around here until someone starts trouble."

"Everything was just fine here, until your family started fucking about where it didn't belong!" Bonnaire snapped, waving a dismissive hand at Anton. "All the problems we've had since the Blight? There's a Hawke in them somewhere."

"And somehow, you've stopped having most of those problems, haven't you? And problems from before the Blight, too?" Anton smiled serenely. "Just needed a little shaking up."

"Literally, I've heard," the Warden remarked.

"Dragons camping under the city," Isabela insisted, wiggling her fingers at the nobles. "Can't blame that on the Hawkes."

"Poor Anton always did want a dragon," Merrill reminded her. "Maybe if he'd gotten one, we'd still have a Chantry."

"You see?" Anton asked, rhetorically. "The problem isn't too much Hawke, it's not enough Hawke."

"Speaking of not enough Hawke, Ali and I are going to ... solve a problem creatively. Exactly the sort of thing the devastatingly handsome Anton Hawke used to be good at." Isabela wiggled her eyebrows suggestively at Anton.

And that sounded terribly tempting, given the level of boredom she had rescued him from.

"No," came Bran's voice through the door. Just the one word, flat, simple, decisive.

"I assure you I'd still be good at it, Izzy," Anton replied. "But I've got a city to run. And as we've established, Kirkwall needs more Hawke, not less. Give my regards to Antiva."

Izzy pouted, but Anton didn't change his mind. "Oh, you're no fun," she teased. "All respectable and responsible now. When did that happen?"

"And we need Merrill here too, so don't even try," Anton replied with a wink at Merrill. "Maybe Lord Tolbert could keep you company? He has his own charms, in theory."

Tolbert's cheeks turned a mottled red as Merrill stifled a giggle.

"Lord Tolbert looks like he'd need six drinks and a splint before any of those charms would manifest," Isabela sighed, draping herself dramatically across Merrill. "But, fine. We'll seek our excitement and adventurers elsewhere." She gave Merrill a quick kiss and made for the door. "Come on, Ali. Let's see how many friends I have left in Kirkwall."

"Terribly sorry, Viscount," the Warden, clearly the 'Ali' spoken of, muttered, as Isabela led him away. "You might want to fetch a healer for your man, though!"

* * *

  
Varric was hunched over a table, in the back of the Hanged Man, rifling though a stack of reviews for recent books. There had been an uptick in non-fiction for mages, in the public sphere, in Kirkwall, in the last year, and he tried to include those just as often as any other type of book people were writing to him about. But, the words in some of these -- he couldn't tell, half the time, if these reviewers were even talking about real things.

 

When the floor creaked, he didn't even look up. "How you doing, Rivaini?"

"What-- aren't you even a little surprised?" Isabela huffed, kicking over a chair and sitting down.

"Why would I be surprised? You sound exactly like yourself." Varric laid out four reviews on the table studying them.

Isabela tutted, leaning to the side to read what Varric was looking at. She got half a line into one of the reviews and lost interest. "And here I thought I would swoop in, all dashing, and sweep you off your feet."

"Sorry, Izzy, the swooping is really more Anton's thing," Varric said, still reading. "And Cullen makes a much better swoopee." He finally turned a grin her way. "But what you can do is buy me a drink with all that pirate booty. The deeper the better. And possibly also a hat like that." He tipped his chin at her admiral's hat, which sat on her head at a jaunty angle.

No sooner had he spoken than Edwina appeared with a pitcher and two mugs, which she set in front of the two of them. Izzy grinned, sitting back in her chair and folding her hands behind her head.

"Please. Like I'd greet you without getting drinks first."

"You saucy minx," Varric teased, pouring for each of them.

"Not half as saucy as Ali, here, isn't that right?" Isabela winked over her shoulder at the Warden still lurking behind her.

"What? Er, yes, of course. What she said." Alistair surveyed the bar warily. Darkspawn were one thing. He knew what to do with them. People, though, still tripped him up sometimes. Particularly Isabela.

"The only way that man would be saucy is if you poured it on him," Varric scoffed, sorting the reviews into two piles, for later consideration. "So, what is it besides my unending charms that bring you to this dingy pit of booze and slightly less despair than when you left? Fancy a hand or two of cards?"

"I fancy your opinion of Antiva."

"Too many Crows." Varric took a long swig of his drink. "And what are you asking me for? Don't you have some dainty little Antivan murderer to tell you all these things?"

"The dainty Antivan murderer got us started on this venture. I've had his opinion." Isabela leaned forward, elbow on the table.

"You've had a lot more than his opinion, and I had to listen to that," Alistair complained, finally dragging over a chair.

"What can I say?" Izzy said without remorse. "His opinions are very good. I think you could use someone giving you an _opinion_ now and then yourself." She arched one eyebrow at Alistair, a lazy smile crossing her face.

"I don't need anyone's opinion but my own, thank you!" Alistair protested. His ears pinked as he backtracked. "That came out wrong."

Varric chuckled and gestured at the chair across from him. "Stop lurking and have a seat, Warden Boy, and maybe a drink if Rivaini's still paying." Or at least as long as he wasn't. He was surprised she hadn't made a reach for his coinpurse yet, and Varric wondered if Ali's pockets were getting lighter. While Alistair waffled over whether to get a mug for himself, Varric turned back to Isabela. "Are you planning a vacation to Antiva? Business or pleasure?"

"Is there a difference?" Izzy said, batting her eyelashes. 

"It's family," Alistair clarified. "Mine, not hers. I've got a problem with the Crows that was recently brought to my attention, and I intend to solve it."

"By stabbing people. He intends to solve it by stabbing people. But, Crows, so..." Isabela shrugged. "You understand our predicament."

"Wait, wait, you're going to Antiva to take on the Crows? What could that possibly solve? Can't you just buy out the contract?" Varric looked back and forth between them, baffled.

"It's not a contract. It's a prison break," Alistair said. "And--"

"You're invited," Isabela finished, guzzling her beer and slamming the mug on the table. "Are you in, or what?"

"And what do I get out of this?" Varric asked, to buy himself a moment. Yes, he'd been thinking about leaving Kirkwall for a while -- not permanently, but taking a bit of a holiday, just to get away from the pressures of ... everything, really. His business ventures had spiralled out into the absurd, and he still had that ridiculous title to take care of. It was like inheriting a tiger -- very pretty and very dangerous, to your enemies and yourself, if mishandled.

"Adventure, intrigue," Isabela said, draping an arm around Varric's shoulders. "A great premise for your next book."

"Oh, what?" Alistair protested. "No. You are not writing a book about this. There are some things about my family the world could do without knowing. And by some things, I mean most things. All the things having to do with me, specifically."

"It's not like he would use your real name," Izzy said, shooting an annoyed look at Alistair. "Or even necessarily all the real details. Varric does a wonderful job of... embellishing. You've read his Tale of the Champion, haven't you?"

"No?" Ali said with a sheepish shrug.

"No? And I let you on my ship? Scandal!"

"Ignore her," Varric said, leaning his elbows on the table to address the man across from him. "As tempting as a holiday with Rivaini sounds, I'm going to need to know a little more about what, specifically, we'd be doing in Antiva."

"Breaking a man out of prison, essentially," Ali explained. "Well, finding the prison, first, and then breaking a man out of it. I have some idea of how to get directions and confirm a few things, before we go in, but I don't know much. There's a man in Antiva I'm told has the information I want -- the information we'll need to make this work -- but that's really all I have, right now."

"Who is this man we're breaking out of prison, and what did he do to get in prison?" Varric asked, not sure he wanted to get involved with yet another lunatic revolutionary with a habit of dropping buildings on people and setting things on fire.

"From what I understand, it's a matter of value, not crime. Someone needs him alive for something, and whether that's something he is or something he knows, I don't know. But, we're closely related, and I've never met him. I'm afraid I was young when he disappeared, and now I have the opportunity to find him." Alistair shrugged and eyed the pitcher, debating how rude it would be to forego the glass entirely. It looked like there was only one glass of beer left in it anyway.

The man was clearly avoiding some part of the question, but Varric couldn't tell how much was not telling and how much was really not knowing. "That's something I can sympathise with," he decided. "I may not like my brother very much right now, but I'd be pretty pissed if someone made him disappear. So, closely related? Is this your brother or something?"

"Or something," Ali muttered, looking up gratefully when Edwina set a glass in front of him.

Varric eyed the man in front of him, trying to guess his age, and watched him pour the rest of the beer into his glass. Too young for this imprisoned 'man' to be an illegitimate child or something of the like. Varric had his suspicions. Varric always had his suspicions.

"I admit, you've piqued my curiosity," Varric said, "though I'm not sure that's enough of a reason to get involved in a mess with the Crows. Nothing spoils a good vacation like assassins on your tail. And speaking of on your tail, Rivaini..."

Edwina slipped them a refilled pitcher without being asked, and Isabela slipped her a wink. Varric busied himself with pouring and waited until she had left to continue.

"Speaking of on your tail, you should watch yours," he said. "There's some Chantry lady hanging around Kirkwall who's been asking questions. Right now, those questions involve Cormac and his means of transportation."

"She's looking for our glowy, blond friend, I bet. Chantry's probably got some questions about things here." Isabela laughed and took a swig of beer. "And she's looking for me, because everyone saw them get on my ship."

"I don't think anyone's looking for Blondie, yet. She will be, if she starts talking to Choir-Boy, though. Of course, he sounds like a lunatic, and he's also in Starkhaven. Do you know he's threatening to invade, because of Blondie? Do you believe this guy?" Varric shook his head. "Like Blondie's dumb enough to hang around after something like that."

"So, what could she possibly want with our very beary dog lord?" Isabela asked, pausing before she reached out and clapped a hand on Alistair's shoulder. "No offence to any dog lords currently at the table."

"I thought I recognised the accent," Varric said, snapping his fingers. "I don't know what she wants. All I know is she tried to get Stabby, first. She's got a lot of questions about the Tale of the Champion. I told her it was mostly artistic license. The Hawkes can straighten her out about the rest."

"Stabby?" Izzy repeated, arcing one eyebrow. "She came here looking for the Champion, and now she's after his burly brother? And _not_ Blondie?"

Varric shrugged one shoulder. "I don't know her motivations. I don't want to know. What I do know is that her trail ran cold when she couldn't find you, so it's best to keep it that way."

Alistair looked between the two of them, shifting uncomfortably and making his chair creak. "Is she a threat? Do we need to be worried about this?"

"So far, all she's done is glare and ask invasive questions," Varric said cheerfully. "But her glare is weapon enough. She's not the kind of woman I'd want to mess with, even without the Chantry behind her."

Alistair frowned, but Izzy waved a hand and took another slow drink. "Please. After running from the Qunari all those years, some Chantry meathead isn't about to frighten me."

"Well, whether she frightens you or not, I'm going to strongly advise letting yourself out the bathroom window right about now," Varric said, tucking his papers into his coat and leaving a couple of coins on the table, just in case. "I'll continue this conversation on the docks, tonight, if you're still here."

Without glancing in the direction of the street door again, he made his way toward the back, where the delivery door led out into an alley with Darktown access. Cassandra could question him all she liked -- he knew nothing. Except that now he knew that Isabela was in town. That was going to be a little difficult to deny, since he'd been sitting with her, when Cassandra's face appeared in the entryway. At least she'd headed for the bar, first.

But, what was he still doing in Kirkwall, anyway? He'd meant to take a holiday since long before Blondie's final act of defiance, and he just kept getting distracted -- by Hawkes, by the Merchants' Guild, by the Gazette and the Tevinter elves and the not-a-brothel. That was what he'd do, he decided. He'd go turn over his interests to Elaiodora, for a while, and take a quick trip to Antiva. He'd be home in a month or two, refreshed and ready to do more business. The elf was practically his steward, anyway.


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile in Starkhaven, politics, florid missives, and Jenet Cavin.

#### Meanwhile, in Starkhaven...

  
Nate sighted down his arrow, his breathing slow and even. For now, the world had narrowed to his target, the straw-filled dummy already pinned by his last two arrows, and there was something peaceful in the simplicity of it, in the familiarity. There were no whiny princes to deal with, no sycophantic nobles. Just him, his bow, and the open air.

And the young man running up to him, a letter in his hand. Whatever this was, Nate didn't want to deal with it. He loosed his arrow, and it struck the dummy in the chest.

"Messere Howe?" asked the messenger.

"What about him?" Nate sighed, reaching for another arrow he probably wouldn't get a chance to shoot, at least not right away.

"Well, _he_ has a letter," said the messenger with a rueful smile. "And my sincerest apologies. You might want to cover your nose while you read it. It's a bit pungent."

Now that he mentioned it, Nate noticed the stink of a particularly strong perfume, and he took the letter with his eyes narrowed. It was, in fact, addressed to him and not Sebastian, to his confusion.

"If you're expecting a coin for the trouble, I'm afraid you're out of luck," Nate grumbled, sticking the arrow back in the ground to open the note. "My coins are somewhere in that tower."

"No, no," the man said, waving his hands, "Lady Frisshell pays well enough. It's just... she wanted me to wait for a response." The smile that followed was brittle and strained.

"Maker," Nate sighed, turning his attention to the words on the page. Through the eye-watering haze of perfume -- she must've oiled the edges of the page quite heavily -- he could make out the words that made perfectly clear this was not a diplomatic missive. Or, at the least, not the sort of diplomacy he had any intent of engaging in. "Is she quite serious?"

"As a head wound, Messere Howe." The corner of the young man's mouth tilted up. "If it's any consolation, it's still Prince Sebastian she's interested in, and I'm not sure it's so much him as the title."

"So, I'm a stepping stone on the path to nobility." Nathaniel felt suddenly exposed, as if he were wearing less than trousers and boots, and he snatched up his shirt, leaning his bow against the rail at the edge of the field as he pulled it on. "I used to be nobility all to myself, once. If this is what it would have been like all the time, I'm almost glad I gave it up for the darkspawn."

"A Warden, then?" The man's eyes grew wide. "That's grand! Did you go south for the Blight? Were you at Denerim?"

With luck, the messenger would interpret Nate's wince as a response to Lady Frisshell's torrid missive. "I was conscripted after the Blight," he said. If this stranger didn't know about the Howes' disgrace during the Blight, Nate wasn't about to tell him. "I'm afraid I missed most of the fun. Had my share of adventures with the Warden Commander, though. Never a dull moment with that woman."

"Amazing," the man said. "Bet you have all sorts of great stories."

"Not sure about great, but they're stories." Nate couldn't do more than skim the letter. This was utterly ridiculous. He looked up at the man over the letter. "Do I hear a Kirkwallian accent?"

"Ah. Perhaps." The man's smile was sheepish. "Is it that obvious? Most people don't seem to notice any more."

"Well, I was in Kirkwall right before I came here," Nate said, refolding the letter. "Do you have family there?"

"My parents. My dad's the seneschal, so you probably know him. He knows you, at least. You may have come up once or twice in his letters."

"Bran? Really?" Nate had to laugh. The boy looked almost nothing like his father, except for the red hair and maybe the shape of his nose.

"Really. Bran. I'm lucky I didn't end up named Bran, too. He's Bran Cavin VI, you know, right? I'd have been the seventh." Not-Bran chuckled and hooked his thumbs in the back of his belt.

"What is your name, anyway?" Nate asked, fiddling with the letter. "If this is the first letter, I can only imagine how it will go on from here. Might as well know you from every other Bran, Colm, and Aristide, before it becomes important."

"Jenet," Not-Bran said, holding out a hand. "Pleasure to finally meet you, Warden Howe."

"Nathaniel. None of this 'Warden Howe' shit." Nate shook the man's hand, the eye-watering perfume clearing enough for him to realise the man wasn't as young as he'd thought. But, then, he'd heard rumours Bran had been there for as long as Dumar had been viscount, and he didn't look a day over forty. "You never really leave the Wardens, but some days you wish you could go running back."

"The hurlocks less threatening than the noblewomen?" Jenet joked, rubbing his eye as the wind shifted.

"I've come to realise I far prefer the simplicity of combat to the idiocy of politics." Nate sighed, with a glance toward the window he knew was Sebastian's. "What are your thoughts on Prince Sebastian's policies?"

"I think he has different priorities than I was expecting the new prince to have," Jenet said tactfully, if evasively.

"Like wanting to invade Kirkwall?"

"Among other things, yes." He paused as though he considered saying more, only to stop himself. "In the end, however, he is already an improvement on Goran. I could do without needing to deliver letters like these, though. The perfume sort of sticks to you after, and its ghost haunts you even when its gone."

"Great," Nate muttered. "Just what I wanted to smell like: rose and desperation."

Jenet chuckled. "So, what response should I give her Ladyship?"

"Would an arrow through the paper be too strong of a message?" Nate drawled.

"You might end up with a perfume-scented arrow," Jenet pointed out. "I'm not sure it's worth that hassle, as fun as it would be to watch."

"Andraste's bounteous bosom aflame," Nathaniel sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "And the Maker only knows what she'd make of me 'piercing' her letter. Honestly, though, is she quite serious? Do you know? I mean, she's a very attractive woman, but that third line -- have you read this?"

Jenet shook his head. "Messere, I have long since learnt not to stick my nose in notes that smell like that."

Nate handed him the paper anyway. "That third line... Is that even possible? That is complicated and unutterably disgusting. I must be misreading it." He tried very hard not to think of Anders, speaking of unutterably disgusting, but even Anders's unusual tastes paled in comparison.

"I think the word is 'wassail'," Jenet said, after a moment squinting at the coils and swirls of ink. "Wassail makes much more sense."

Nathaniel looked contemplative. "Actually, if it's wassail and not weasel, that doesn't sound half bad. Still probably a poor idea. I doubt Lady Cousland would forgive me the _political_ trespass, never mind the trouble of bringing Lady Frisshell any closer to Sebastian."

"Perhaps Lady Cousland would mind the trespass less if it did involve a weasel?" Jenet said, almost managing to keep a straight face. "I suspect the prince might mind more, however, if he has to deal with Lady Frisshell after. I'm not sure he could handle her, even without any woodland creatures."

"I can't disagree with that last statement," Nate said. He considered the letter still in Jenet's hand. "Perhaps we're best off burning that. Unless you think all the perfume oil would make that dangerous?"

"It might be worth the risk."


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of views on the events of a few weeks time. Letters, letters, and Kirkwall's new clinics. This chapter is about 2-3 weeks before [Chapter 17 of _By the Petty Crown_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5626165/chapters/16240736)

Fenris returned from a quick meeting with Aveline, to find that in his absence, the floors had been waxed. Mage-waxed, quite heavily. Everything gleamed, and Orana made her way cautiously across the main hall, sliding more than walking. He nodded to her, in passing, and made his way toward the kitchen. He'd use the servant's stairs, he decided -- those wouldn't be waxed, because Artemis still hadn't discovered them. 

Still, as he pushed off and slid from one room to the next, something nagged at him. Something was wrong with the air. Waxed floors meant lemon, and this did not smell like lemon, but it did smell familiar. Still citrus. Sort of orangey...

It hit him as he stepped out of the closet in the bedroom. "Amatus, why does it smell like your brother in here?"

Artemis looked up from where he had been cleaning the windows. Again. There was a stubborn spot there, in the lower right corner that wasn't going away, despite his most valiant efforts. "Like... who?" he asked, his stare blank until he focused on the smell.

Oh. That hadn't been lemon, had it? He hadn't tried that spell with orange before, and he didn't know what had compelled him to -- No, that was a lie. He knew exactly why.

Embarrassed, Artemis went back to scrubbing, his throat tight. "I miss him," he said softly. "I think it's starting to hit me how much." Working with the elves had been a wonderful distraction, but they hardly needed him now.

Fenris had always been confused by that relationship -- it didn't make sense, no matter how many ways he looked at it, but sense didn't matter. Cormac made Artemis happy. That was what mattered. And Cormac had been gone for months. It was spring again, and in another month or two, it would be a year they'd been apart. As he wrapped his arms around Artemis's waist, he thought back to where they'd been a year ago -- fear of war, Meredith's increasing peculiarity, angry editorials in the Gazette. If nothing else, they'd come a long way from that. And if he was honest with himself, he missed Anders, especially when his skin ached.

"Has he written again? Maybe you should send something, if they're still in the same place. Something with flowers, if you don't trust the messengers. I think he stifles you, but I think he cares, and he's not going to vanish without a trace."

Artie chuffed and leaned back against Fenris. His touch was soothing in a way that cleaning simply wasn't just now. "He's my big brother. I think he thinks the stifling is part of his job description." He turned in Fenris's arms to nuzzle Fenris's cheek. "I have not heard from him in a while, but I haven't checked if we've gotten any mail today. That would be hoping too much, I suppose."

"Then you should definitely send him flowers," Fenris said, taking the cleaning rag from Artie's hand and setting it down. "What were the ones I sent you by accident? The 'untrustworthy dick' flowers?"

Artemis cackled in his ear, the rush of breath making it twitch. "He'd probably find that funny, once he's done being offended."

"And I will bring you less-insulting flowers, while we await a response. Pansy and primrose, perhaps? Or shall I just bring you something pretty from Gytha's, to take your mind off things?" Fenris teased, nibbling at the line of Artemis's jaw. He'd gotten less terrible at flowers, as the years passed. It was a nobleman's duty, as with so many other things, to be able to read a bouquet, and he wouldn't embarrass Artemis. And more than that, it was a reminder that he was a nobleman, now. That still struck him strangely, from time to time.

"Would it be greedy of me to want both?" Artemis teased before nibbling up the shell of Fenris's ear, holding the tip between his teeth for a long moment. "Though I can think of a few other ways you could distract me in the meantime."

* * *

* * *

_Poor Nathaniel_... Elissa Cousland sat at her writing table, piled with invitations to all the little social things Fergus didn't have time to attend, himself. She'd thought to bring Nathaniel to a few of them, but the man was a Warden and his schedule was non-existent -- something he occasionally thanked the Maker for, she knew. And now, he was in Starkhaven, preventing an invasion. His letters had gotten a bit manic, and really, if she ever needed proof he didn't have it in him to do as his father did, those letters were it. He seemed constantly confused and annoyed, and all he wanted to do, it seemed, was leave. Not the sort of man who would slaughter a castle full of friends -- at least she'd always considered the Howes friends -- in the middle of the night, in an attempt to secure more power. Nathaniel always seemed like he wanted _less_ power, and being a Warden had put him almost where he wanted to be -- until now.

She glanced at the letter, again. His political acumen, limited as it seemed, at times, was showing again. Lady Frisshell of Starkhaven was trying to use him to make a move on the prince. And for several other lewd purposes, to judge from the included transcription. He was asking if she wouldn't solve this problem for him, with her 'feminine wiles or something'. 'Do lady things at her!' he'd exclaimed, at one point. It was, she reflected, probably a good thing he hadn't become the Arl of Amaranthine. His judgement was strong, and he made quick decisions, but the finer points of what he asked frequently escaped him.

A part of Elissa considered leaving the situation in Nathaniel's dubiously capable hands, but that was, she suspected, how international incidents came about. Very well. She would do 'lady things'. Sending flowers would qualify, she was sure, particularly if paired with a small gift and a charming note. Kingdoms had toppled over less.

* * *

* * *

"A message, Messere." Orana appeared in the doorway of the room Artemis was re-cleaning. By now, she'd stopped asking or taking offence, but it was still so strange to see a mage, and a relatively powerful and talented mage, cleaning the house. But, Messere Artemis had never been like the mages she'd known in Tevinter. "It appears to be from your Antivan friend."

Fenris reached over her shoulder and plucked it out of her hand, his other hand occupied with one of the pork puffs he'd found cooling, in the kitchen. He broke the seal with his thumb, flipping the letter open, grateful that his hand was obeying him, today, and skimmed it, as he chewed. "Your Messere Kestrel wants us to come visit," he said, around a mouthful of pastry. "And Orana's made those delicious spicy pork puffs again, which I am going to finish eating out here, in the hall, so I don't get crumbs on anything you've just cleaned." He glanced at Orana. "You continually remind me that cooked food is a good idea."

"Just as you remind me that plates are, as well, Messere," Orana teased, grateful when Messere Artemis didn't notice the dribble of crumbs that fell from his next bite.

Artie was much too focused on the letter in Fenris's hand, which he stopped cleaning to snatch up and read himself. Orana left them to it to make sure the cats hadn't decided the pork puffs were toys again.

"He really is terrible," Artemis said fondly as he skimmed over 'Kestrel's' outrageous flirtations. Fenris was pleased to see him smiling again. "What do you think, Fen? Would you be willing to part with Orana's delightful cooking long enough for a visit to the Anderfels? Would the cats let you?"

"I expect they will yowl incessantly at the door, until I return," Fenris drawled, taking another bite. "No, no. They will probably be even more attached to Orana, when we return. There will be no one else competing for her attention or her roasts." He paused to finish chewing. "I would like to see Anders. Do you want to go?"

"Ah, and he admits it?" Artie teased. He made a grab for Fenris's pork puff, but the elf was too fast. "And yes, I do. I miss my brother, and I would like to see where they've been living, the town as a whole as well as the new house they've built. Someone needs to make sure they're keeping it clean." Artemis reread the letter, still grinning.

"Then we will go," Fenris declared, holding up a finger as he crammed the rest of the pastry into his mouth. "When do you think we should leave? We'll have to tell your sister, of course, and mine. Probably Theron and Merrill, since they may need something about the buildings, but Natia, right? I don't think there's anything you know about them that she doesn't, by now." He swallowed the last of the pork puff and licked his teeth as he stepped closer, pinning Artemis against the doorframe. "And just think -- the two of us alone in a room, in a city where no one knows us, but your brother and his nightlight. No missions up the coast. No sudden midnight meetings about levelling the ground."

Artemis purred at that, wrapping his arms around Fenris's shoulders and dipping in for a kiss. "How romantic," he said. "Would 'immediately' be too soon? I'm sure Theron would miss me, but I'm not sure they need me any more. I was up late last night trying to redesign the sewers, just to give my mind something to do." He also smashed his last few sculptural attempts in agitation, but he wasn't going to bring it up if Fenris wasn't. "Orana can look after the house and fatten the cats."

"I wonder if they will be slower and less stealthy, if they are fat cats. That alone might be worth the trip." Fenris chuckled, sliding his hands over Artemis's oddly still-crisp clothes. "Shall we begin packing at once, or is there time for me to ravish you one last time in our house, before I take to ravishing you on a ship? I assume we're taking a ship. I have heard distasteful things about the overland journey, and we... well, I, shouldn't go north the easy way. I apologise, but I imagine I am still persona non grata in much of Tevinter at this point, and my face is a bit difficult to conceal."

"A ship is a good choice," Artie agreed before stealing another kiss. Maybe he could throw Tevinter's coast a rude gesture on the way by. "So is some ravishing before the packing. All packing should be preceded by ravishing, in my humble opinion. And possibly followed by it as well."

* * *

* * *

A year later, there were still no Spirit Healers in Kirkwall, and those who suffered most for the lack were the same people who had benefited so much from Anders's clinic -- the inhabitants of Darktown. But, the Circle's new clinics weren't useless. Mages who'd studied other aspects of the Creation school turned their studies to its healing aspects, and at the least, wounds could be closed and bones tacked in place. Scars were common, but amputations increasingly less so. The people still grumbled about Anders having left them -- no healer the Gallows could give them was as good as he'd been -- but aside from the first clinic, still where Anders had left it, the new clinics were all above-ground, clean and with fresh air. Even coming to one of the Lowtown clinics was enough to ease a cough, by virtue of getting out of the sewery depths of Darktown.

And the clinics had spread quickly -- a few in Lowtown, two more in Hightown, and another by the Docks. Some displaced Chantry sisters tended to spend time in them, singing the Chant and offering comfort as they could, while they waited for the new Chantry to be built. Each clinic boasted at least one mage and a few Tranquil, who enchanted ice and heat stones, rolled bandages, and crafted uncomplicated prosthetics. And still, there were occasional protests outside the door about mages in public, and the nobles argued again and again about the cost -- which they weren't paying anyway, since it was nearly all coming from the Gallows's maintenance budget. As Anton occasionally pointed out, 'That's Tim's problem, not yours.'

But, private donations had definitely helped the Circle get the clinics started; surprisingly, several families of templars had pitched in, upon hearing about the project. And the Hawkes, of course, had contributed what they were able, considering how much of their income for the year was tied up in other civic renovation projects. But, this day saw Bethany and Merrill at the clinic closest to the Alienage, both dressed to their station, shaking hands and asking questions.

"Messeres," the clinic's mage, an elf, greeted them when they drew near. She leaned her staff against the nearest cot so she could shake hands properly, with both hands. "Welcome! We are honoured to have you here. I have heard much about you both! Especially you," she said to Merrill, eyes wide in awe as she shook her hand for longer than was polite. "An elf on the council of nobles! An elf _mage_! How incredible!"

Merrill chuckled and patted her hand, and finally the clinic mage remembered to let go. "I just happened to stumble into the right place at the right time. I'm sorry, but I didn't catch your name?"

"Oh! Of course. I'm Inella, an enchanter. Welcome, again. How can I be of service, messeres?"

"We're just here to check in on things," Bethany things, "to see if there is anything you need, supplies, another set of hands, that sort of thing. So really, I suppose the question is, how may we be of service?" She smiled disarmingly but looked around as she spoke, making sure the place was orderly and clean. She suspected even her neurotic brother would approve.

"Oh, we have what we need," Inella assured Bethany. "More than this, there's only frivolous wishes -- a deal with the Merchant's Guild for better fake legs, an actual spirit healer, a dedicated supply of embrium. I doubt those are things you can find for us, with Thedas in the state it's in."

"Embrium? How much do you need?" Bethany asked, already considering some of the rebels they'd granted farms to, outside the city. "I may know some farmers who could be interested in a long-term contract. I'll have to talk to them before I can make promises on their behalf, of course, but... good people, and likely good product."

"We've had to buy from the florist's supplier in Antiva! It's terrible. The nobles get--" Inella realised who she was talking to, and her face reddened. "That is, there are some people who are more upset that they can't buy a bouquet than they are pleased at the lives we've saved."

"We know exactly who you mean," Merrill assured her, patting the Enchanter's shoulder. 

Inella looked relieved. "Overall, everything has been running smoothly," she continued. "We get a steady stream of patients, but we haven't been overwhelmed. I can't imagine what it was like with just one clinic! With one mage! The man must have run himself ragged." 

"He did," Bethany assured her. "He usually needed outside intervention to remember he needed sleep. And food. Said outside intervention usually had to bring the food." Merrill nodded along in agreement.

"That's right," said Inella. "I forgot that you would have known him. I don't know what happened, exactly, and I won't ask, but I do know the city misses having a spirit healer."

Merrill nodded in agreement to that too.

"Well, you know, with all the trouble in the Circles, lately...." Merrill looked contemplative, glancing around the clinic only to notice that she knew several of the patients. "I wonder if we can request transfers. That's what it's called, isn't it? I remember Cullen saying something about it, once -- that sometimes the Circle will send a mage somewhere for a reason, because somebody asked for them."

"I don't know if anyone's going to send any new mages to Kirkwall, now," Bethany said. "I'm shocked the Chantry hasn't ordered an Exalted March, or at least sent a replacement for Ser Cullen."

"Both of those have been proposed," Inella pointed out, picking up her staff and waving over a patient, as she talked. "But, the Chantry has a good many people here, in Kirkwall, and they can all see how the city is changing. I like to think we're an experiment. They'll call a March, as soon as they see something they don't like, so it's all the more important that we show them the best we can do. Still, you're right. They're probably not going to send us anyone who works with spirits -- Kirkwall has always been full of demons, and the danger of corruption is far too high. No offence to your friend, of course. It's Andraste's own blessing that he held himself so well for so long."

"This is a point," Bethany said without looking at Merrill, who busied herself looking around again, her own expression carefully blank. "I like what you just said about showing the Chantry the best we can do, Inella. You have a good head on your shoulders, and you seem to understand the stakes. I think we'll do fine."

Inella ducked her head graciously. "Thank you, messere," she said as her newest patient sat on the cot in front of her, clutching a broken wrist. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I..."

"Of course," said Merrill. "Don't let us interrupt your work. Not any more than we have, anyway. Thank you for your time."

On their way out, Bethany paused to talk to one of the Tranquil, to get the numbers on the clinic's supplies and to make sure they were as well-stocked as Inella had said. Embrium was low, as she'd said, but otherwise their stores were reasonably full. Everything seemed to be running smoothly, and the ladies looked pleased as they left, comparing notes.

* * *

* * *

Fenris gazed out the little round window of their room aboard the passenger ship. He was sure there was a word for that, other than 'little round window' -- he'd heard it once or twice -- but he was also sure he didn't really care what they were called because he didn't mean to spend enough time on boats for it to matter. What mattered, at least in the moment, was the way his arms itched, and he wondered, not for the first time, if it had something to do with the blankets. But, that hadn't been the issue, in Kirkwall. Some days it was better, some days it was worse, but the sensation of the lyrium had turned to a ragged itch along the edges of the lines, and it was all he could do not to claw at it for relief.

Artemis wrapped his arm around Fenris from behind, nuzzling lazily behind his ear. "Clear day today?" he asked, following Fenris's line of sight to the window. The sea had been choppy the day before, and Artie was grateful that Fenris had better sea legs than Cormac. He ran his hand over familiar skin, tracing contours and muscles that he knew by heart, but he paused as his hand brushed the tattooed lines on Fenris's chest. He was used to a change in texture from skin to lyrium, but today the lines felt different, the skin around them raised and hot to the touch.

Fenris sucked in a breath when Artie prodded the lines on his arm. Artemis swallowed down the knot of worry in his throat. "Fen, how long have your tattoos been like this?"

"It's just the sea air," Fenris assured him. "It's the salt. Once we get there, once we get off the water, it'll stop. You'll see. It's fine."

He turned and tugged at Artemis, pulling his mage out from behind the chair and down into his lap, a poor choice that registered as soon as that glorious ass met his thighs. Sliding a hand up Artemis's leg, Fenris looked contemplative -- a weak cover for his discomfort. "What do you say we see if that wound salve from the clinic helps with the swelling, and then we work on some more interesting swelling, like this lovely bulge in your trousers?"

Artie huffed and stole a kiss. "You have a way with words," he drawled with a slow, fond smile, trying to set aside his concern. They would see Anders soon, at least, and if the salve didn't help, he could. Another lingering kiss, and then, "Hold that thought," as Artemis went to fetch the salve.


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathaniel has far more regrets than political acuity or Orlesian ailments.

**Starkhaven...**

The pages in the great hall watched Lady Frisshell's man make his way toward the Warden's office, face red with the struggle not to laugh. "Is Messere Howe in?" he asked at the top of the second set of stairs, continuing on as the guard nodded, gazing curiously after him.

"Well? What is it?" Nathaniel demanded, at the knock on his door. He had a box of Orlesian truffles and an entire carafe of fine Nevarran coffee, and a headache that was likely to start a war, if he wasn't exquisitely cautious with every word that came out of his mouth -- and as long as the target wasn't Kirkwall, he wasn't sure he cared.

"It's Jenet," the man composed himself enough to answer. "May I come in, Messere Howe?"

Nate groaned, only to regret the way the sound echoed in his skull. "Only if you don't come bearing more perfumed missives." Just the memory of that smell tipped Nathaniel's headache to the more nauseous side. "Otherwise, pretend you never saw me. Or heard me, rather."

Jenet pushed open the door, holding his hands out in front of him to prove they were empty. "No messages from my mistress, I promise," he said, still unable to stop grinning. "In fact, I suspect you have seen the end of those."

Nathaniel sat up in his chair, narrowing his eyes at Jenet. "That's ominous. And hopeful."

"My lady received a message from Lady Cousland. Apparently, something involving flowers that I understand to be an apology or best wishes of some sort and a tin of salve -- a salve suggested for those with particular... Orlesian ailments." Jenet cleared his throat and raised an eyebrow.

Nathaniel froze, staring. "Orlesian ailments?"

"I understand the letter suggested that the salve would be quite necessary if she made use of your charms." Jenet choked on the next word and stifled a laugh behind his hand. "Messere, I laud your ingenuity! That was ingenious! Brilliant!"

"Yes," Nathaniel agreed, though the idea hadn't been his. "Yes, it was. At least until it backfires so badly I can't even pay for a prostitute." He crammed another truffle into his mouth and pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead as he washed the chocolate down with coffee. Two things in life that went so well together, unlike Wardens and prostitutes, as Anders had never ceased to remind him, every time they went to town.

Jenet nearly looked sympathetic, under the amusement. "Oh, I'm sure Lady Frisshell won't tell too many people," he said, though they both knew she was a terrible gossip. "At least I won't have to deliver any more of those pungent letters. Not here, at least. You can air out your rooms and rid yourself of the memory."

Nathaniel hummed something mildly agreeable around his next truffle. It occurred to him that he was being rude, not offering Jenet a truffle or coffee or even a seat. But then he decided he didn't feel like sharing and neglected to feel bad about it. "I will be sure to do so, once I'm done composing a letter of thanks to Lady Cousland. I doubt it will be a long letter." After that, he'd find a rock to hide under until his embarrassment passed.

"Bless you, dear lady, preserver of my masculine virtue?" Jenet joked, helping himself to one of Nathaniel's truffles. The box was far too tempting and close to the edge of the desk. "I'd definitely begin with that, if it were me. Cousland... that's... somewhere in Ferelden, right? One of the very powerful families. Definitely go with 'masculine virtue', there. The closer to the throne you get, the more you've got to enhance opinions of your purity and gratitude."

"I'm a Warden." Nathaniel looked up to catch Jenet licking the chocolate off his thumb and scowled. "She has no illusions about my ... 'purity'. Besides which, I think she just implied some amazingly impure things about me." He smiled, thoughtfully. "I do love her. All the more after this."

"Well, you can't just tell her that, all willy-nilly!" Jenet protested, one damp finger frozen next to his mouth.

"Why in Andraste's name not? She's already agreed to marry me! We were to be married years ago..." Nathaniel paused and glanced around the room. "Around the first time I ended up in Starkhaven. Perhaps I should simply accept we're never to be wed, at this point, because every time it looks like it might happen, I end up ... here."

"Or maybe you should give in to the inevitable and get married to her up here?" Jenet suggested. "A destination wedding and honeymoon in the Marches?"

Jenet plucked up another truffle, this time while Nathaniel was watching, but failed to realise he was being glared at. Nate shuffled the box closer to himself.

"I am not having my honeymoon in the Marches," Nathaniel grumbled, shaking his head. "The point is to enjoy your honeymoon, isn't it?"

Jenet laughed and licked bits of chocolate from his teeth. "I don't think you hate it here as much as you like to say. Otherwise, why would you keep coming back?"

Nathaniel glanced at the window and pointed in the direction of the palace. "That's why. Not the building, but one of the idiots inside it."

"You might need to be more specific," Jenet teased. "The palace is full of idiots."

"The palace is full of idiots," Nathaniel repeated, contemplatively. "I want that on a tapestry, so I can hang it in my office."

"But, everyone will think it refers to you!" Jenet protested, looking playfully scandalised.

"Who says they're wrong?" Nathaniel asked, with a frustrated gesture at his desk. "Marry the girl, run off to Nevarra. That was the plan. Instead, I became a Warden, and now I'm stuck as a ... relationship advisor to the Prince of Starkhaven. Because, you know, my relationship's working so well, I'm the ideal candidate for this."

"Relationship advisor?" Jenet squinted at Nate. "I thought you were a political consultant."

"Everyone thinks I'm a political consultant." Nathaniel shoved his chair back, immediately regretting it as the wood squawked across the stone. "Do you know who his fiancée is?"

"The Lady Amell. Everyone knows that."

"Her brother is the Viscount of Kirkwall. The same Kirkwall he keeps trying to invade, which isn't about her at all, but what it is about isn't something that is even in Kirkwall, any longer, and no one is sure where it went -- aside, perhaps, from a few individuals, and questioning them ranks near poking wyverns on the common sense scale." Nathaniel ran a hand through his hair in irritation, before realising it was tied back. "And as far as I know, none of those people are in Kirkwall, either. It's a blatant annexation attempt, and you know how those end, in the Marches."

"That is not something Starkhaven needs right now," Jenet sighed. "Kirkwall either, I'm sure. I had not realised his fiancée was related to the viscount. Or maybe my father mentioned it, and I failed to remember. Is that why she's still in Kirkwall and not here?"

"She's still in Kirkwall because she thinks the prince is being an idiot." Nathaniel reached for another truffle, only to find the box empty. Damn. "She has told him everything I just told you, that what he's looking for isn't even there any more, but he's being a stubborn ass. He swore he would march on Kirkwall with an army, and he plans to." Oh look, there was his headache spiking. Babysitting the prince had brought him more headaches than he'd had in his life.

"Popular rebellion is still an answer," Jenet suggested. "I mean, it's going to be hard, since the people seem to love him -- but after Goran, a demon-possessed frog would be showered with adoration and praise. When's the next Grand Tourney? What do we import from Kirkwall? Pamphlet the city to let them know what's going to happen if he starts this war."

"I understand pamphlets didn't help much, in Kirkwall," Nathaniel pointed out.

"Kirkwall's problem was _mages_. It's going to take a lot more than pamphlets to make mages seem acceptable." Jenet shrugged and shook his head. "But, Kirkwallers? This city has nothing against Kirkwall, historically. They, as a people, have no reason to go to war with Kirkwall. I'd say 'we', but I'm a Kirkwaller. Remind them they like Kirkwall, and they'll lean on him for you."

"More than that, this city needs Kirkwall," Nathaniel muttered. He pressed his cup against his forehead, hoping the heat would ease some of the tension there. "How many trade routes go through Kirkwall? The whole thing is foolish and ill-thought-out, and the prince might cripple the city if he's not careful." Nate rubbed his forehead and considered Jenet's suggestion. "There might be something to what you say. Maybe the people of Starkhaven could convince him where my charm and tact has failed."

Nathaniel still suspected that Lady Amell would be key in stopping this invasion, assuming Sebastian could get his head out of his ass long enough to listen to her. Considering how deeply wedged in there it was, Nate wasn't holding his breath.


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The perils of letting mages run free in the streets -- which is to say Jethann has never had so much fun in one night, and Aveline never wants to clean that up again.

Aveline caught Cullen in the courtyard of the Gallows, where he appeared to be training a line of young templars in how to hold a shield. Young templars like the one who followed her, shame-faced, toward the Knight-Commander. "Commander, I've got one of your men, here."

"Ser," the young templar said, swallowing hard and looking at anything he could find that wasn't Commander Cullen -- or Captain Aveline.

"Seems he had a bit much, last night. We brought him in, because he was singing trashy Orlesian ballads at the top of his lungs, behind Smith's, and the neighbour grabbed a patrolman to complain," Aveline explained, just thankful it wasn't a Hawke. Every time something drunken and terrible happened and it wasn't one of the Hawkes, she was thankful to some degree. "When we asked who he was, all he'd say was that he was a powerful Merchant-Prince of Antiva, singing to his lady love. Complete with the worst impression of an Antivan accent I've ever heard. Finally, this morning, he could tell us who he was and where he belonged, so I've brought him back to you. Please keep him to yourself."

Cullen pressed a plate glove over his eyes and chucked tiredly. "Not as bad as the mages, though, right?"

"Nothing will ever be as bad as Jethann getting those six mages drunk and convincing them to strip and make 'pretty magic'. I heard it took a week to find all the dead flowers after that and another to fix the chandelier." Aveline choked back a laugh. It was almost funny now, months after the fact, but it had been terrible and terrifying at the time. She'd had to call for templar support, to ensure no one would get hurt as they rounded up the drunken mages and tried to sober them up.

Cullen shouldn't laugh at that, especially not when he was trying to put on a stern face for the recruit. "Get your gear and join the others," he said.

"Yes, ser." The recruit had the tight-skinned look of the hungover, and Cullen knew he was about to have a miserable training session. "Thank you, ser." He ducked his head, still avoiding eye-contact, and slunk away to do as he was told.

"Kids these days," Cullen said to Aveline in mock exasperation.

"As long as they're not Hawkes, I'll consider it a victory." Aveline adjusted her headband, tucking in a few loose strands. "The last thing I need is to babysit a drunk viscount, which, incidentally, I'm surprised has not happened."

"If Lord Bonnaire keeps up his complaints, it might," Cullen said. "For the most part, however, I've been the one babysitting the drunk viscount."

"'Babysitting'. I'm sure."

Cullen turned a vivid red and rubbed at the back of his neck. "So, how have the mages been working out? I haven't had too many calls for reinforcements, recently, so I'm assuming they're finally settling in?"

"One of them applied for the guard," Aveline said, watching the line of templars smack each other with shields. "I had to turn her down, of course. Kirkwall's come a long way, but we're not ready for that. And definitely not with the demons still active."

"So, a decrease in public drunkenness and flowery riots? Good." Cullen nodded. "Turn your arm before you break it!" he shouted at one of the recruits.

"Still a few beatings. Of mages, not by mages. There are people who don't want this to work out." Aveline shook her head. "It's been difficult convincing some of the mages that we're there to ... help them isn't really right. Protect the victims, with no regard to magic or race. It's been difficult for the elves to trust us, too, but at least no one riots when we bring on elves as guards for the alienage. I wouldn't put them anywhere else in the city, but they're all right, there. I'm not sure I'd trust anyone else, there."

"You've been doing good work," Cullen assured her. In a lower voice, he added, "I wasn't sure how this was going to work out. I was worried it was going to be a complete disaster." His laugh had a nervous edge to it.

"Mages and demons running amok until there was an Exalted March?" Aveline drawled.

Cullen chuffed. "Something like that." Instead, he looked around at the recruits and at the young mages who were helping them train, noted the easy way they acted around each other. That never would have happened under Meredith.

"Well, the mages are only running a little amok," Aveline teased. "Enough to keep my men on their toes and... dead flowers in brothels, apparently. But no Exalted Marches, yet, Maker be praised. That sounds like a lot of work to clean up."

"A lot of work for someone to clean up, anyway. Probably not us." Cullen chuckled weakly, knowing that if a March was ordered, his death would be at the top of the list.

"How are things in the Undercity?" Aveline asked, watching one of the mages hit the templar she'd just brought back in the face with a line of ice.

"Less demony." Cullen looked pained and rubbed his neck again. "Merrill makes the men a little uncomfortable, but she and Carver have the most experience against demons of anyone in the ranks, and I need them leading, until that experience spreads. I've made it clear that anyone who goes down there is leaving a phylactery with me... as soon as we have enchanters who can make them, again. Apparently, they don't work just on mages, and with the strength and age of the things down there, I don't want to take any chances."

"So, instead of a mage phylactery vault, you'll have a demon-hunter phylactery vault?" Aveline looked contemplative. "Some part of me really wants to argue that, wants to say that all mages are more at risk than any other person, but I've seen what goes on in this city. I guess it makes sense that you're keeping track of the people who are intentionally seeking out demons. _That's_ a risk."

"That's my thinking." Cullen nodded. "We've been clearing out rooms and passages and then sending the clerks down to document everything we've uncovered -- etchings in the walls, shrines to the Old Gods, books, traps, wards... The history of Kirkwall is down there. Something down there will tell us what in the Void is wrong with this city."

"I think there are many somethings wrong with this city," Aveline said with a weary shake of her head. "But probably fewer things than there used to be, despite Anton."

Through her exasperation, Cullen wasn't quite sure if that was a genuine statement or a teasing jab.

"In honesty, though," Aveline said, plate clanking against plate as she nudged Cullen's elbow with hers, "I haven't had to kill nearly as many demons lately. Or any, actually. I'm not sure if that's just because I haven't seen them, but I like to hope there just aren't as many around?"

"Or maybe the creatures beyond the Veil have finally learned to flee in terror at the sight of Guard Captain Aveline." His laugh cut short as he watched the recruits. "Watch your footing!" he called out. "Ser Roland, that's how you get your toes frozen off!"

"Sorry, Commander!" Roland nearly tripped over his own feet trying to correct himself.

Captain Thrask came down the stairs, into the courtyard, trailed by five mages, the last being the First Enchanter, who was enthusiastically explaining something to the other four. 

"Commander," Thrask greeted Cullen, with a deep nod. "Samson's sent us four from Ostwick, which you know. Just giving them the tour."

"Have you been paying attention to Roland's feet?" Cullen asked, eyes still on the line of templars.

"Roland should never be in close combat." Thrask shook his head. "He's got a powerful smite, but he's just clumsy up close."

Cullen sighed. "Sorry. Ostwick, you said?" he held out a hand to one of the mages. "Commander Cullen. I'm ... something like in charge here, Maker preserve me. And this is Guard-Captain Aveline, who is more devoted to the letter and spirit of the law than anyone I've met."

"You've met the spirit of the law," Aveline reminded him, "but I'm always open to flattery." She nodded at the mages. "Pleased to meet you. Please don't make trouble in my city, or you'll get a firm introduction to the cells in the Keep."

Four mages looked at her with round eyes. "Of course not, Guard-Captain," said one, a tall, skinny mage standing in front. "Why would we cause trouble?"

Tim guffawed, throwing his head back theatrically and reaching up to keep the horned hat on his head. "No need to scare them, Captain. I'm sure there won't be a repeat of what happened at the Rose."

"What happened at the Rose?" one mage asked another conspiratorially. The second mage shrugged and shook her head.

"You're damn right there won't be," Aveline said, all squared jaw and scowls, as though she hadn't been choking back laughter at that very memory moments before. "You had better make sure of it."

Cullen cleared his throat and addressed Thrask. "Have we had any other news from Samson? Or Alain?"

"Alain says they're doing just fine. Samson says he's too old for this, something something, damn kids. Apparently, Alain is more popular with young mages. I'm sure that has something to do with him being a young mage." Thrask chuckled and shrugged.

"Messere Alain is very kind and funny," one of the mages explained. "But, his friend..."

"Ser Samson looks like a templar," another filled in. "It's nothing about what he wears, but it's in the way he stands and moves. In the way he looks at you. He's really obvious."

"But, we'd heard about Kirkwall, from other mages and travellers, and we wanted to see for ourselves. It had to be better than hiding in the shadows in Ostwick," the first mage went on.

"It looks very nice, here," the tall mage said. "And... we're really allowed to go to town?"

"Of course!" Aveline declared. "As long as you don't... make trouble. I'd advise keeping the drinking to a minimum."

Tim wrapped an arm around the shoulders of the closest mage. "Why don't we go to lunch? I'm hungry. We can go to a restaurant or pick something up from one of the carts in the market. I'll take you to the Orlesian bakery, after -- you should see what they can make! Little fruits made of marchpane!"

The mages murmured in excitement at the promise of such exotic things, and the five of them left as one in a gabbing herd.

"He better not be taking them to the Hanged Man," Aveline muttered, eyes boring into their backs.

Cullen clapped a hand on her shoulder. "I wouldn't worry. Tim's more fascinated by hard candy than by hard liquor." Which wasn't to say the man couldn't put away wine. "I doubt that's high on his list."

"That's only mildly reassuring," Aveline sighed. She made a note to stop by the Orlesian bakery later. To make sure nothing was on fire, and maybe to get that kind of bread Donnic liked.

"They're mages." Cullen shrugged. "Mildly reassuring might be the best you'll get." 

Thrask nodded his agreement.


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What kind of idiot breaks into Aeonar?

**Meanwhile, in Ferelden...**

The prison was a secret -- or that's what they said, anyway. No one knew where it was except those who needed to know, those who needed to deliver prisoners or supplies. Which, of course, meant someone did need to know, and someone did know. It had been simple enough to knock out the couriers and search their bags, and he found what he needed on the second one -- a pair of stones hung from opposite ends of a stick. One pointed toward the Wilds -- that was always true with these things -- and the other pointed toward the destination. He cut the second stone loose, close to the stick, and it still pointed the same way, hanging from his fingers. It would look like an accident, he hoped, like they'd just lost it somewhere. But, he'd get there.

There were no stories of what went on in Aeonar -- at least, no stories from people who'd been there. No one left. All the stories were terrified whispers, invented by those afraid of being sent. He had no idea what he was walking into, but he knew what he had to do. Get in. Get the girl. Get out.

He walked long enough that he stopped noticing the rhythm of his feet. They were simply there, like a second pulse. As he walked, the air changed so gradually that he almost didn't notice, and he might not have, if not for the tell-tale shiver down his spine that told him someone was watching. He looked, but there was no one there.

Spirits, he realised, finally noticing that sharp smell he associated with the Fade. They pressed close to him as he dispelled each ward he came across, their intense interest enough to make his hands shake. Still the stone pointed onwards, and still he walked, until, after one last ward, Aeonar was simply _there_.

It was a fortress. He'd known it was going to be a fortress, but that hadn't prepared him for its size. Without the wards, the tower would have been impossible to miss from miles away, and even with the wards, he marvelled that no one simply stumbled upon it from time to time.

It was more intimidating in person, made more intimidating still by the guards at the gate. But he had a job to do, damn it, and he wouldn't let that stop him.

This time, he'd be a hero, he thought, rubbing a hand over the dark stubble on his insomnia-paled face. He tucked the stone into one of the multitude of pockets in his jacket and watched the guards. They suspected nothing -- expected nothing. This place had been impossible to locate for centuries, and no resident -- prisoner or guard -- thought anyone would find it now. But, he had.

The two at the gate chatted casually with each other, but never to anyone on the other side of it, that he could make out. That meant they were probably alone. One of the buildings behind the wall would be the prison tower -- probably the tall one, really -- and the rest ... if they were even in use, they'd be ... He had no idea. He hadn't considered the place might be more than one building, and he really hoped the rest of them weren't full of Crow-trained templars, just waiting for something like this. It seemed unlikely, but so had everything else leading up to this point.

Magic prickled his fingertips -- quicker than usual. Something in the air in this place made it easy. One guard wobbled and yawned, and then both of them dropped heavily to the ground with a massive clank of plate, as the spell overtook them. Okay, that was louder than he'd intended to be, but there was still no sign of movement beyond the gates.

He prayed no one was watching as he tiptoed across the open space, pausing to whisper an apology to the sleeping guards. That fall, in plate? That was going to leave bruises.

The gate was loud, as large, heavy gates generally were, and he winced as he pushed it open just enough to squeeze through. The sound of approaching footsteps almost drowned out the sound, however, and he shut the gate on the sleeping guards, scurrying for cover behind a stack of crates.

His heartbeat pounded in his ears. Those footsteps were getting closer, too close, and he hoped they weren't on their way to relieve the guards at the gate. That would be awkward. He cast, almost without meaning to, and the footsteps stopped, punctuated by another metallic thud. Okay, again, that was loud, and... now there was a pair of guards passed out in plain sight. In hindsight, that may not have been his best idea. Should he hide them? _Could_ he hide them? Did he have the time?

He decided his best option was to panic and sprint for the tower.

The first wave of smites hit him before he'd even registered quite how many templars stood on the tower's steps, knocking the wind and the magic out of him. Two templars behind him, closing in quickly, and ... more than he wanted to stop to count, in front of him. Maker's balls, this was not how this was supposed to go at all. Did the Maker even have balls? He wasn't sure he cared, but after that smite, it seemed almost relevant. Relevant. That was a great word. The clanking in the background bothered him, though. Rhythmic, dreadful clanking... Relevant revenant... _Run_!

There were no revenants, and he was sure of that, but as he sprinted out of range of the ongoing barrage of smites, the world became somewhat clearer again. Aeonar. He'd broken into Aeonar, and there were templars chasing him. Not the ones on the tower steps, though, and he wasn't sure he was glad for that. They'd been trained to stay put -- to defend, not to hunt. The ones behind him, though...

He ducked through shadowed parade-width spaces between buildings, crashing through untamed brush as he came toward the wall. If he stuck to the wall, he'd find a way out eventually. Out. And then he'd have to get back in. But, he'd know. He'd have a better plan. He'd know where everything was and who everything was -- no, _where_ everyone was. How the fuck did he always end up doing this to himself? That, he thought, was the real mystery, here.

Wall. He'd just have to stick to the wall, and he'd find his way out. The wall was his friend, unlike the templars still hot on his heels or the smites they kept throwing at him. And who knew people in plate could run that fast? He supposed he'd never had the opportunity to watch the templars back at the circle try, except maybe that one time what's-his-name had tried to make a break for it...

Gate. There was the gate. And the second set of templars he'd knocked out. Stupid, stupid, stupid. It would be great if he could break open the doors before he got to them -- he could just keep running until he either ran out of templars or ran out of legs -- but that would involve magic. He cast anyway -- or tried to -- but his fingers were numb. Or, not his fingers, but his magic. A smite felt like losing a sense, like trying to figure out depth with only one eye.

Gate, gate, gate. But the clanking metal kept coming... and he kept going, certainly not with a high-pitched shriek trailing behind him. Nope.

Something in the air shifted, some dull green ripple, and he wondered what horrible templar talent this was, until the thing flashed into being in front of him. He thought it was a weirdly gnarled tree, green with moss, until it moved, lunging past him toward the templars. He suspected he'd wet himself, after a moment, when the sudden chill on his legs kept spreading down, but he just kept running, as the horrified shrieking behind him started.

He wouldn't look. He wouldn't look. They were templars, and whatever that thing was, they deserved it. He just kept telling himself that, as his hands wrapped around the bars of the gate, trying to wrench it open again. On the far side, the guards were beginning to stir again, not quite conscious. He pulled harder, the gate finally slowly creaking open. As he slipped through the opening, he glanced back only to immediately regret that decision. That was a demon -- not one of those little ones he'd called to him during his escape, but the kind they warned you about. A real demon. And it was hungry. He was almost glad to see a templar's sword bite deeply into it. If they killed it, then it wouldn't come back for him. If they fought it, then they wouldn't be chasing him.

He looked away in time to miss the way the demon's claws bit deeply through the plate of one of the templars. If he had seen that, he likely would have wet himself all over again. As it was, he kept running with the image of uninjured templars and a skewered demon still his head. He kept running and running until his lungs burned, until he was certain the only footsteps he heard were his. 

Hands on his knees, he paused for breath and looked back over his shoulder at the fortress he could no longer see. The stone was a heavy weight in his pocket.


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The art of phylactery-making, two proposals of the romantic sort, and one of the political variety.

**Back in Kirkwall...**

After talking to Cullen about phylacteries and his idea that the demon-hunting teams should have them, it had occurred to First Enchanter Tim that they would need someone to _make_ the phylacteries. A year ago that would not have been a problem. A year ago, they had a circle full of terrified but multi-talented mages. The mages they had now were less terrified but no less talented... just not in this particular area.

Which was how Tim ended up with an office full of enchanters digging through his predecessor's books, with the Dalish mage girl -- the baroness, he corrected himself -- trying to explain why blood magic wasn't so bad. Tim wasn't so sure about that, but of everyone in the room, Merrill was the only one (to his knowledge) who had ever used blood magic. She looked considerably much less terrified at the idea than his cohorts.

"Blood can be used to do things to people that you just can't accomplish without a huge amount of mana and effort, in other schools!" Merrill pointed out, crouching to skim the titles on a lower shelf. Orsino, it seemed, had an extensive library of books on the biological magics -- everything from Creation to Necromancy.

"Yeah, like boiling it in their veins, I've heard," one of the enchanters scoffed.

"Or using it to heal them," Merrill countered, sliding a book out of the shelf. "There's a book on it right here. Creation is hard on the healer, but with a little bit of blood, it's much less draining. You can know a person's body better, on the inside, with just a few drops of their blood. Make sure they heal properly. It's simple enough if they're already bleeding, I understand. I'll admit I've never tried that, but the new clinics everywhere are still looking for real healers, and it's tempting to see if I can learn to do it. No demons needed for something like that." Merrill paused, setting the book aside, as she kept checking titles. "I really think summoning a demon with that would be a sign you did it wrong. Healing is supposed to make the suffering and bleeding less, not more."

"And what happens if you try to heal your friend but do end up accidentally summoning a demon?" another enchanter grumbled. "Your friend might end up _more_ injured instead of less."

"What happens if you try to light a candle and accidentally set the table on fire?" Merrill countered with a shrug. "Or if you try to cool your drink and accidentally summon a blizzard? Blood magic is no less dangerous than any magic. It's all about knowing what you're doing, trying not to make mistakes minimizing the damage when you do. If you're that worried about doing it wrong, you need to work your way up to it."

A few enchanters exchanged uncomfortable glances over their books. Tim pulled out another tome which looked promising and set aside the trashy Orlesian novel that had been in its way. "At least we are in agreement that demons are not a good sign," he said, squinting at the title. He really should get better reading glasses.

"Demons are never a good sign," Merrill agreed, paging through a book she thought she recognised -- a treatise on Nevarran funerary statuary by a pseudonymous author calling themselves 'The Silver Falcon'. "And if you do end up with demons, don't believe them. Chances are they're telling you something that's almost true, and it's the not-true part that will kill you."

"Wait, they aren't always lying? I thought demons only lied. I thought that was part of being a demon, like they can't tell the truth!" A young enchanter popped up from behind a table on the other side of the office, looking concerned.

"No, I think they are always lying, but you can't judge something as untrue because a demon said it." Merrill set that book aside as well and moved on to another shelf. "It's like if I said you're wearing red, so you must be Orlesian. You're definitely wearing red. That's true. But, it's not true that wearing red means you're Orlesian. Or even that you are Orlesian. I mean, I don't think you are, are you? Ceallach doesn't sound ... soupy enough to be an Orlesian name."

"Orlesian names are not soupy!" huffed an enchanter with an Orlesian accent. 

"Now, Honoré, there's nothing wrong with having a soupy name," Ceallach assured him with a slow grin and a pat on the arm. "You know I am a fan of soup."

"You slurp your soup," Honoré grumbled.

"Ah!" said Tim, adjusting his spectacles. "I think I've found what we're looking for." And not a moment too soon, he decided, since Ceallach looked primed to make a lewd comment about slurping Orlesians. That was not an image Tim needed, and yet there it was.

"Oh? How exciting!" Merrill crossed the room to look over his shoulder. "Elgar'nan, that print is small."

"Saves on paper," Tim said, angling the book so they could both read and pointing out a paragraph. "This part, starting here. It describes the phylactery process in detail. More detail than we've been finding, anyway."

Merrill squinted, leaning closer to the book. Parts of the text seemed to be Orlesian, but... Ah! There. "Oh! Well... that doesn't seem terribly difficult at all! A little bit of blood, a little bit of lyrium, and some powdered herbs to keep the blood from rotting away. I'm sure the actual spell is going to take a few tries. The new ones always do. But, we're not working with young children, like the text thinks we should be, so it should be easier."

"Less screaming and crying and kicking?" Honoré drawled, coming over to get a look.

"I don't know about you, but I definitely intend to be screaming and crying if this involves slicing me open. I've already had that done once, and once was enough." Ceallach shuddered and leaned against a bookcase, thumbs hooked in the ornate belt of his robes.

"We should practise on each other, before we attempt to bring anyone else into this," Tim pointed out, rifling the desk drawers for something to write with. "We'll need equipment to practise with, and probably a few of Cullen's best men, just in case we have any accidents. No need to make things more dangerous than they have to be. And it can't be that dangerous, really, these instructions were written by the Divine's own magical advisor, in the beginning of the Storm Age. Circles all over Thedas are following this guide."

"I suggest we practice on Honoré," said Ceallach. "We can find out if his blood is soupy too."

"That is disgusting," Honoré sighed.

"We will all practice on each other," Tim insisted. The other enchanters looked less than thrilled. "I hope none of you get squeamish at the sight of blood."

* * *

* * *

 

Varania liked the way Paivel made tea. If she were honest with herself, there were quite a few things she liked about Paivel, a fact which continued to surprise her. They sat at his new table in his relatively new house, sipping tea and eating cakes and enjoying each other's company, and through the window they watched the kids play. Spurius and Paulla ran from tree to tree with Theron's children while Theron roared and chased them, pretending to be a monster.

"He's good with the kids," Varania observed, chin in her hand. "He's a bit too much for some of us adults, sometimes, but he's good with the kids." Paulla waved in the window as she ran past, and Varania's eyes sparkled. They hadn't had many kids their age to play with back where they'd lived in Qarinus.

"Kalli would tell you that's because he _is_ a child," Paivel chuckled between sips.

"And for all that says about her, I'm not sure I'd argue the point," Varania admitted, picking up her cup, as Theron scooped up Spurius under one arm and his own daughter, Elendra, under the other. Cackling, he spun around in a circle and shouted that if they stuck their arms out, they'd fly like griffons. "He's... playful."

"Someone needs to be," Paivel said, watching the five of them, outside. "If we can't play, then the shemlen have crushed us at last. Speaking of shemlen, how is life in the city?"

"The work is good. I enjoy doing it and other people enjoy wearing it. People still spit, sometimes, in the street, but less now. I don't know if that has more to do with them seeing a person when they look at me, or with the streets being clean and new. There's less resentment, now that the repairs are spreading through Lowtown. We have our own clinic, too. It's almost nice." Varania smiled and passed Paulla a biscuit, through the window. "Share that with your brother!"

"Have you thought about moving up here?" Paivel asked, eyes carefully still on Theron. "It has its advantages, Theron being among those."

Varania stilled. "Oh? And are we asking on behalf of Theron?" She joked, but Paivel could tell he'd caught her off guard. This wasn't the first time he'd made such hints, but he had never outright asked before.

"I'm asking on your behalf and the behalf of your children," Paivel said, sitting straighter in his seat. "And... perhaps a bit for my own sake. I have this large house now, and it always seems empty when you leave. Your kids could grow up with elves their own age, in a town where no one spits on them. You know the clan already sees you three as family."

Varania was speechless for a while as she fidgeted with her teacup. There was something tempting in his suggestion, and yet... "I have a job in the city, Paivel. A job I like that feeds my children. I can't just give that up."

One by one, the children collapsed under a nearby tree, their seemingly boundless energy finally spent. Theron sprawled out on the grass beside them.

"Would you need to?" Paivel asked, with a slight shrug. "I don't know much about what you do. Tailoring seems so much simpler a concern among the clans I've met. Nothing like what you do in the city. And I know that it's a long way to travel, regularly, but you've been coming up once a week, to visit. Could it not work in reverse? Bring your work to the city at the end of the week?"

And that was something Varania hadn't thought of at all. Could she do that? "We are usually working weeks, if not months, in advance..." she admitted. "I don't know. I'd have to see."

"It's worth considering. You've brought a light into my life I didn't think I'd see again. I thought I'd offer." Paivel struggled to look as nonchalant as possible, breaking a piece off one of the berry biscuits for himself.

Varania saw through the act. Her expression softened as she watched him, and she surprised him with a quick kiss, beating the berry biscuit to his lips.

* * *

 

* * *

The letters from Starkhaven arrived in pairs. Bethany wondered if Nathaniel planned it that way, so that his letter would serve as a long-suffering footnote to whatever Sebastian had written. Sebastian's letter first, then. She'd wondered when his next letter would come -- _if_ it would come -- after her polite but chilly continued refusal to join him in Starkhaven.

"Bodhan, could you put on the kettle?" she asked as she slit open the letter, taking a seat at her desk.

"Of course, messere."

 _To my most Beloved_ , the letter began. That was warmer than the last letter, certainly more affectionate than Bethany would have expected. She was suspicious already, but also, perhaps, somewhat hopeful.

_To my most Beloved,_

_I have been convinced, at last, to lay aside any thought of invading Kirkwall. I seek only Anders, cursed be his name, and I will have him, but Warden Howe knew him well, and is certain beyond any doubt I have offered that the man has left Kirkwall behind, and no gain can be had of seeking him there. My anger with this murderer has made me rash, but I am convinced to place my faith in the last of the network of spies my parents left behind. If he lives, he will be found._

_But, I wish to renew my proposal to you in this light. Starkhaven and Kirkwall are among the greatest cities of the Marches, and no good can be had of setting them against one another, as my people have reminded me. Let us, instead, unite our lands and people in the greatest alliance the Marches have ever seen. We shall accomplish great things together -- a bettering of the world through example. And, together, we may put down those who make a mockery of justice._

_Sadly, Starkhaven is not yet fully recovered from the idiot machinations of my cousin Goren, but what could be spared has been put into reconstructing the Circle tower -- more stone than wood, this time -- as you requested. What you ask of me, I never forget, and I would present you with this tower as a gift, for our wedding._

So, Sebastian had finally come to at least a few of his senses. Bethany had given up hope of such a letter, and she had to wonder what had caused his change of heart. She had no illusions that he had come to such a conclusion simply because he missed her.

Setting Sebastian's letter aside for the moment, Bethany reached for Nathaniel's, certain he would provide some context.

 _Marry him,_ it read, without pausing first for introductions. Bethany always could trust Nate to get right to the point. _Please. It's our best chance of stopping the invasion, and it will finally be an end to the ever growing pile of scented letters. I can recount some of the horrors of the text, but the smell must be experienced in person._

_You were planning on marrying him anyway, weren't you? Please get on with it before I die of asphyxiation._

Melodramatic as always. Of course Sebastian had been getting romantic missives. Upon taking the throne, he'd become one of the most eligible bachelors in the Free Marches. She almost felt bad for Nate.

She picked up a quill, as Bodhan set a cup of tea on the corner of her desk. A simple reply, for now, to assure him she'd seen the note, and then a longer reply later, when she agreed -- under certain conditions, of course. A treaty would need to be drafted, and she'd have to see Bran about that. He'd know who else would need to be consulted -- aside from Anton, of course.

_Pumpkin,_

_Didn't I already agree to marry you? Of course, your recent political decisions have made it a bit difficult for us to marry, so I'll need to consult with some of the advisors, here, before I set a date. Can't do anything that might upset the political underpinnings of my brother's city. We'll make it wonderful and official! A grand alliance with a treaty and everything!_

_And that is what I will bring as a gift for you._

* * *

 

* * *

 

The text of the proposal ran to nearly a hundred pages of quotes and citations from a variety of magical and historical texts, but with four of them working on it, it had only taken a few months to write. It would take more work and more time to get it past the Council. In the end, it was decided that Aveline and Carver would present it, since Merrill's inclusion could tank the whole thing and Cullen wasn't supposed to have a hand in city politics at all. Carver would be their 'templar consultant', then.

"Are you insane?" Lady Faolain asked, about nine pages in. "Blood magic?"

"Please consider this is the exact same 'blood magic' sanctioned by the Chantry for tracking maleficars. We can use it to track any repeat criminals in Kirkwall, even if they leave the city. As long as they've committed a crime once, we can find them easily if they commit another crime," Aveline explained, relatively calmly.

"As long as they've been arrested once," Carver corrected. "We need to catch them to take their blood."

"Is this even useful?" Lord Tolbert asked, rubbing the back of his head. "I mean, criminals who are caught don't repeat their crimes! They go to prison or we put them to death!"

"Maker, Tolbert," Lady Olmos sighed. "Prison isn't always for life. Some of them don't even go to prison. They're put to doing road work or service to the Chantry."

Lord Brannon stroked his beard as he read, his forehead a maze of furrows. "You say when someone has been arrested," he said. "Does that mean you take their blood even if you only suspect they have committed a crime?"

"As a precautionary measure, yes, in case they make a try for escape," Aveline replied. "If that person is found innocent or no punishment is given, we will destroy their phylactery, but only then."

"And," Carver cut in, "if a criminal goes without committing a crime for a certain number of years, we may consider destroying the phylactery. How long depends on the crime and its severity."

"I still don't know how I feel about this," Lady Faolain said, shaking her head. "This city has been making certain allowances for magic that are unprecedented, and thus far, the Commander and the city as a whole have made it work. But this might be a step too far for me."

"It is rare that I get to say this," said Lord Tolbert, "but I find myself in agreement with Lady Faolain."

Lord Brannon sat back in his chair, still fiddling with his beard and looking uncertain. "For myself, I think there might be some merit to what they're suggesting," he said tentatively. "Might. I must consider it."

Merrill sat up straight. "I think it's a wonderful idea," she said, putting both hands on the table. "And just to show how much I trust the idea, I volunteered to get one made for me. I'm a baroness, now. Kidnapping is always worrying. But, I trust that if anything happens, the City Guard will be able to use that phylactery to find me." It wasn't quite why she gave permission, but kidnapping really was a concern as an elven noble in a human city. And Cullen was worried _demons_ would kidnap her. It was close enough. "I feel much safer knowing that someone's looking out for me."

Lord Marchaund narrowed his eyes at that statement. "And that's something we haven't even considered. That's not part of this proposal at all, but if it works for you, perhaps I'll have them done for my son and daughter. It's magic, but who at this table doesn't have magic in their home? Who hasn't got a warming pot or a cold cup? We've all bought runed housewares, even before this outrageous idea of letting mages run around the city became popular. And this? This doesn't need mages to work, from what I can see, any more than those do. You need a mage to make it, and then anyone can use it. Regular people. Your own bodyguards and butlers. The City Guard. There's nearly no mage in this magic."

"It's blood magic!" Lady Descoteaux cried, throwing the stub of her charcoal stick at Marchaund's head. "It doesn't matter how many mages it takes, because blood magic is _illegal_! And it calls demons! Do you know what Kirkwall doesn't need? More demons."

Lady Olmos shook her head. "Yes, but the only time blood magic isn't illegal, according to the Chantry, is for this exact purpose. We're just changing who it gets used on. The... magic part is still the same, isn't it?"

"It's a slippery slope," said Lady LeClair. "Criminals first, then Marchaund's kids. Are we next? Will the guard be privy to our every movement? Even if this weren't blood magic, I'm not sure I would be in favour."

"If it's regulated to criminals or on a voluntary basis, like Lady Merrill," said Lord Brannon, "I'm not sure I see the harm."

"No, indeed," agreed Lady La Chapelle as she fussed with her hat. "You all remember that grisly string of murders years ago, the one that -- Forgive me, Viscount, that was callous of me." She turned round eyes on Anton as though only remembering he was present.

"Go on, Lady La Chapelle," Anton said with a tight smile. He lounged in his chair with one leg hooked over the armrest. "But to answer your half-asked question, yes, I'd say we remember."

"Well," she said, "in a situation like that, imagine if we could track down the killer. Or at least the missing women before the worst happened. I think having that kind of security is worth whatever risk."

Aveline cleared her throat uncomfortably. "I would like to remind you that we are only discussing a phylactery for criminals in this proposal. Phylacteries for nobles is a... separate concern."

"Blood. Magic." Lady Faolain threw her hands up and stood. "My vote is no. Mark that down in case this ever makes it to a vote. I am going to a luncheon with good and sensible people. Try not to pass this idiocy in my absence."

"Oh, Maker, what time is it?" Lord de Launcet's eyes leapt to the candles in the glass case on the wall. "Is that right? I was supposed to meet my wife an hour ago!"

"I vote we table this proposal until next week, so we can all get something to eat," Lady Descoteaux put forth. "All in favour?"

There were but a few ayes, but not a nay in the room.

"So be it," Anton sighed. "We have a long list next week. I advise bringing your lunch, or we can have a runner bring something in, but there are several votes that _must_ be made -- like the Tevinter import duties on home furnishings. We've run out of time to procrastinate. This, of course, is not one of them, but I will add it to the end of the list."


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Demon-hunting in the Undercity, now with more Tevinter toilet demons.

Carver led his team further into the Undercity. Most of them were templars, like him, but they'd brought a pair of mages and a Chantry sister. The mages had found that Force worked wonders against most sorts of demons and the sister was writing a book on the history of Kirkwall. She kept stopping to sketch the engravings on the walls by the light of the torches that were once again kept lit along the passageways. Whole pre-Blight Tevinter legends decorated the sides of the passages -- the construction couldn't have been cheap, and Carver wondered if it was dwarf work or mage work.

Most of the rooms in this hall were dormitories, he knew. They'd documented six rooms, last week, each shared by two occupants, from the signs. Some of the occupants, they'd discovered, remained there. Unfortunately, the sister was unable to document where or how they'd died, because they had a tendency to stand up when the door opened, as if they'd just been woken from a thousand-year nap. Double unfortunately, it was actually because they'd been possessed by demons, and become arcane horrors. Even dead mages were dangerous, in a place like this, and Carver ordered any corpses they found or created to be hauled back to the nearest room with a fireplace and cremated. No point in leaving them for another demon to take up.

The sister finished her sketch of the last panel of a story that seemed to involve a man sacrificing himself to cure his lover of a disease, and Carver turned his attention to the next door down the hall. "Probably another bedroom. Get ready for the horrors."

He threw open the door only to be struck first with the whiff of stink wafting out of the unusually warm room. Before he could light a torch, a glowing bubble of what appeared to be lava rose out of the floor and he fell back, blinded by the sudden fiery flash that filled the room. 

"Ice it!" Carver shouted, staggering out of the doorway and out of the way of the mages. "Ice everything in that room!"

The mages pushed past him, and ice filled the room before he finished speaking, lining the walls and ceiling with frost that glittered in the dim light.

"What was that?" asked one of the mages, rubbing her hands together to get the warmth back into her fingers. "A demon?" She peeked back into the doorway, but now the room was dark and cold. She didn't see any demons, but that didn't mean they weren't there.

"That was bright, that's what that fucking was," Carver said, still trying to wink away the blotchy after-image of the flash. "It looked like some sort of explosion. I can't say I've ever seen a demon do that." Even so, his knuckles were white as he gripped his sword hilt.

"Guess it's not another bedroom," said the other mage, summoning a wisp of light and cautiously using it to light the frozen room as he peeked inside. It was a bit difficult to make out anything in all the ice, at first, but the longer he looked, the more familiar certain shapes seemed. "It looks... Are those toilets along that wall? That seems a bit... public."

"Oooh, guess who's been hanging out on the Templar side of the courtyard!" the first mage teased. "Is that really what those are?"

Carver nodded, squinting into the room and then widening his eyes as far as they'd go. "That's about what we have on the upper floors. The dormitories still have chamberpots. I don't know. Something about discipline, I'm sure. But, on the level with the commander's office, there's an old Tevinter toilet room. A lot like this, actually. But, with less decoration. I bet they chipped it all off after the revolt."

"And it just goes the same place as the slop-hole? I mean, it's a slop-hole with a seat?" the first mage looked fascinated at the idea, her eyes darting to the carvings on the walls and the faintly glowing runes on the ... she presumed those were lids. "Isn't that draughty and foul?"

"Yes," a templar answered from behind her. "Yes, it is. I don't know why anyone would use one of these. It's so much less disturbing to use the pot, like a normal person. Magisters had to make everything complicated and all they got for it was draughty asses."

"You're not the one who had to wash the pots," Carver muttered, approaching a cracked lid. "Is that the ... the fire dragon? What's his name? Why is there a fire dragon on the lid of a toilet? Is that some kind of maker's mark?"

"Toth?" suggested the Chantry sister. Carefully, she followed him into the room, ice crunching underfoot. "Is that what you mean by fire dragon?"

"Yeah," said Carver. "That guy. Seems like an odd place to put an image of a god, let alone a god of fire."

"They don't carve Andraste into the Chantry toilets, do they?" asked the second mage. At the sister's withering glare, he held up his hands and shrugged. "What? She's everywhere else in the Chantry! And some people might need to enlist the Maker's help in there." The first mage elbowed him hard in the ribs, and he looked at her in pain and betrayal.

"Maybe it's a rune of some sort?" the sister suggested, ignoring the pair of mages. "We did just see fire in here. Did it come out of one of them?" She gestured at the toilet seat lids.

"Yes, but why would you want fire in one of these?" Carver asked, not daring to lift one of the lids.

"Well, dried shit burns, doesn't it?" one of the templars pointed out. "I mean, when I was young, we had cows, and the best thing to start a fire was dried cowshit. You could always find some in the pasture. So, maybe it's for heating the rooms next to it? Or maybe it's to prevent that draughty asses problem. I bet that's it. The god of fire is supposed to keep your ass warm."

A laugh rippled through the group.

"Do you read Tevene, Sister Agnes?" the first mage asked, studying a carving on the wall at one end of the bank of toilets. "There's words, here. Maybe they'll tell us why there's a god of fire."

"And that's the Old God of mysteries," Agnes said, looking where the woman was pointing. "It looks like a prayer of some sort... roughly something about preserving what little mystery is left of the body ... And now it looks like instructions for using these without baring one's bottom to the whole of the room. Assumes the user is wearing 'long skirts'. I'm going to assume this is something about a popular style of robes. I can't make out all the words, but that seems to be about right."

"So, the Tevinters needed instructions on how use a toilet?" one of the templars laughed. "I guess magic can't fix everything."

"It certainly can't fix stupid," another templar teased.

"Considering how many of us are standing around these toilets," Carver called back, " and wondering what the fuck they do, besides the obvious, I'm not sure we can really laugh at them for that." He shared a commiserating look with Agnes and shook his head. "So the prayer of preservation refers to, what, preserving modesty? Preserving one's ass in case it ends up on fire?"

"My assumption would be the former," Agnes drawled, "but, then, my knowledge of ancient toilets is somewhat lacking."

"And you call yourself a scholar," Carver said with mock indignation.

"Margitte, you're a mage," Agnes said, pointing to the lid of the one seat. "What rune is this?"

"It's something you'd use to seal wine," the first mage replied, taking a closer look. "Why would you seal a toilet? You can probably open it by turning it to the right. Left would engage the rune again. Well, usually. It's Tevinter, so Andraste only knows."

"Demons," a templar sighed, leaning against the wall with a solid clank. "Tevinter toilet demons, a new species, yet unencountered by the Southern Chantry."

"Don't be ridiculous," Agnes scoffed, gingerly turning the rune. "It's probably just to keep the stench down." The lid unsealed with a faint hiss as the air above met again with the air below, and the faint foulness of the room increased. "There's another inscription under the lid," the sister pointed out, pulling the collar of her robe over her face as she crouched to try to read it. Before she could lean forward, something in the depths flickered and a tongue of flame shot up through the open seat, the cracked lid further down the bench hissing at the cracks.

The templars leapt forward, swords drawn. "I was kidding about the toilet demons!" one cried.

But, as quickly as the fire had started, it ended, subsiding to a faint glow in the depths of the pit below. The stench had also mostly passed, leaving behind a smell of burning excrement.

"Is it supposed to do that?" one of the templars asked, sword still tight in his grip. "Did the Tevinters use fire-breathing toilets? On _purpose_?"

"This reminds me of when everyone thought there was a dragon under the city," said a second, bearded templar. The colour drained from his face, his smile shrinking. "You don't suppose there's a dragon down there?"

"No," Carver said, almost too quickly. "There are no dragons. Don't be foolish. And don't go suggesting it where my -- where the viscount would find out about it. The last thing we need is him climbing down a toilet in the hopes of taming a dragon."

Mages and templars exchanged glances. "Is that a long-standing concern you have?" asked one of the mages, Magritte.

"I have a lot of concerns where Anton is involved," Carver grumbled. "Sister Agnes, I don't suppose you got a good look at what the inscription said before you got a faceful of fire?"

Agnes brushed back her lightly-singed bangs and leaned forward again. "May the Dragon of Fire and his... I think that word is 'forgewright' ... guard this place against the tongues of rage which the ground expels at our expellations. In short, they knew these things caught fire and they blamed it on demons of the earth being offended at getting shit upon."

"So, they used fire-breathing toilets on purpose, because they couldn't make it stop. How exactly is this an improvement? I really don't see this being better than slop-holes. At least slop-holes don't set your ass on fire!" A templar shook his head. "The Tevinters were all crazy; that's what I'm getting from this. They weren't just evil conquering bastards who worshipped demons, they were actually crazy."

"An empire of lunatics," the second mage agreed, tucking his hands into his sleeves, nervously.

Agnes opened her book and started sketching again. "This room is in such wonderful condition, jets of fire aside. Everything down here is so crisp! Like they just left it last week! I wonder if these are still in use in Minrathous. I wonder if there's anyone I could ask about that..."

"My brother-in-law lived in Minrathous for a while, I think," Carver said, after a moment. "Fenris, not Cullen."

Agnes perked up. "Is your brother-in-law the sort to mind potentially awkward questions regarding toilets he may or may not have used?"

"He's the sort to mind everything, from what I've seen," Carver said with a long-suffering look. "But ply him with apple tarts and wine, and he's more likely to answer. He and my brother -- his husband, not the viscount -- are out of town and plan to be for a while, though. His toilety secrets will have to wait."

"I see." Agnes nodded, attention divided as her hand flew over paper, filling in details. "I would love to know where the plumbing goes and what it looks like. Chances are, it's probably collapsed, but I would love to know what's causing the fire. I would doubt demons. Or dragons." She shot a look at the templar who had suggested it.

"I dunno," said one of the mages. "I think Ser Herbert was on the right track with his cow shit story. Stuff's flammable, right?"

"Then how come our toilets don't explode?" asked another templar.

"I could change that, if you like," said the mage, grinning as he waggled his fingers.

"Maker," Carver sighed, shooting a tired and unamused look at the mage. "Can you not change that? It's bad enough up there. I swear it was more comfortable living in a farmhouse in the fuckend of freezing Ferelden."

"Unlike some of us," Margitte pointed out, "you got to live in a farmhouse in the fuckend of freezing Ferelden. I don't remember being anywhere but the Gallows, and Meredith was in charge as long as I can recall. You don't know how good you've got it compared to us mages, Ser Carver."

"My dad was an apostate," Carver remarked, drily, studying a sketch on the wall. "The experience isn't comparable to a normal life on either side of the magical line. Besides, you've got a chance to live a regular life, now. Any mages after us will get to be regular people, at least in Kirkwall. I mean, look at you. You're a demon hunter and a teacher at a magical academy. I don't think that's what Meredith had in mind." He paused and pointed at Agnes, over his shoulder. "Why does this look like a story about a giant tentaclebeast?"

"It's a kraken," Agnes said, standing on the edge of the bench to get a better look. "And a very dirty joke about fish sauce."


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magical misfires, boat edition. Now with bonus kraken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is slightly early, and IIRC should align with chapter 40 of By the Petty Crown.

Fenris was looking forward to a day when he'd forget what fish smelled like, but it would be weeks before the boat would make it to Kirkwall. In the interim, Artemis was, as always, an excellent distraction, flushed and naked beneath him with his legs around Fenris's waist. Fenris's hips moved in time to the rocking of the boat, and he took his time, knowing Artemis was in need of his own distraction. He hadn't said anything about Cormac since they'd gotten on the boat, but Fenris could tell he missed his brother, could tell by the sad eyes and the far-off look he'd get when he thought Fenris wasn't looking.

"Fen," Artie breathed in his ear between choked off groans, breath hot against Fenris's skin.

"Tibi insum, Amatus." Fenris's voice was a low hum Artie could feel in his chest. _I am yours_. Fenris ran a hand down Artemis's throat, his touch light and gentle before giving it just the barest squeeze, just enough to feel the vibration of Artemis's next groan under his palm.

"Fuck, _Fenris_." Fenris could feel that sound under his palm too.

Around them, the boat rolled as if it had passed over a large wave, rising and falling a bit more heavily than it had been, but not enough to cause concern. Fenris glanced at their tiny window, expecting dark clouds, but there was no sign of a storm. Just a passing gust from one of the islands, then.

"Te amo," Fenris murmured against his husband's ear, as the rocking of the boat set a somewhat more violent pace for them. Just a bit of choppy water. Probably bad winds today -- there was no one shouting in the corridor, so it wasn't anything to be concerned about. This he knew. This he remembered from Seheron.

He squeezed more tightly -- just until Artemis's breath grew raspy -- and just listened to the sounds of desire that forced themselves through his fingers, for a moment. When he let go, his hand rose to Artemis's face, turning it to bring Artemis's lips to his own. Fenris let himself relax into that kiss, the taste and smell of the man he loved, little pleading whimpers that echoed up into his mouth.

Another roll of the boat, and Artie's breath hitched as Fenris adjusted accordingly. Artemis's fingers sank into Fenris's hair, holding him close even when Artie had to break the kiss to catch his breath. "Te amo," he said back, the words against Fenris's lips, the only words in Tevene Artemis dared speak now in moments like these, words they both knew Danarius had never said.

Artemis ran a finger down the lines on Fenris's chin and throat, fingertips tingling with magic, and Fenris bent his head to nibble at the tips of those fingers, the light buzz of electricity humming against his teeth. Fenris took that hand in his and pinned it to the bed by Artemis's head.

"More," Artie asked for, always asked for, and Fenris chuckled, dipping to bite that long neck.

A shadow swept across the room, and Fenris assumed it was sea birds. The crew must have been hauling in the nets for the day, which always brought the birds down. No matter. They were at sea, and if it was pirates, someone would be yelling about it.

He nipped at the corner of Artemis's jaw, a gasp hissing through his teeth as his hips jerked forward, the tingle of pleasure in his nerves leaping out to meet the tingle of electricity against his skin. "Do you know that you are beautiful? It should not have taken me so long to see."

"It did take you a while to notice," Artie teased, but his eyes were adoring as his looked up at his husband. "But better late than never." He choked out this last word as Fenris shifted, changing the angle of his hips. His mouth hung open without sound for a long moment before he could find words again. "I, on the other hand, always thought you..." 

Artemis trailed off mid-thought, movement from the window catching his attention. He finally noticed what was casting the shifting shadows on the wall, and he stiffened, clutching Fenris's shoulders. "What the blight?" he hissed. "Did someone summon a _fish demon_?" Demon was the only explanation for what he saw, a writhing mass of tentacles clutching at the window.

"What?" Fenris looked up and caught a glimpse of a tentacle reaching past the window. He chuckled and shook his head. "It's just a kraken. They used to beg fish at the docks in Seheron." What he didn't tell Artie was that if the crew didn't treat it right, it could probably flip the ship and drag it down. But, he didn't take these guys for fools -- they'd been doing this route for years. "Tevinter, Qunari, Fog Warriors -- they didn't care. They'd just follow the boats in and pound on the pier until someone fed them. They look like rag-mops with beaks. Almost cute, if you like things that smell like fish."

Fenris nuzzled under Artemis's chin. "I'm sure the crew just stole its lunch. They'll throw it a few big fish and it'll follow us for an hour or two before it goes home."

Artemis still eyed the thing warily, but if Fenris wasn't concerned, then those tentacles were less likely to wind up in his nightmares later. He relaxed in increments, his hands sliding down Fenris's shoulders to skate over his chest and then around to his back. "I suppose that's not the worst surprise I've had during sex." The tentacles still moved out of the corner of his eye, but he tried not to look at it.

"Um." Fenris squinted at his husband, and Artemis could see him thinking. 

"Don't get too imaginative," Artie huffed. "My first earthquake? Dropped a tree on Theron and me."

"Ah, yes. I could see how that would rank after 'interrupting voyeur kraken' on your list." He chuckled, cupping Artemis's face and gently turning him to look away from the window, pressing a kiss to his lips. He chuffed again at some private joke. "It's probably for the best that you do not know some of the more ridiculous Tevinter stories about them."

Artie narrowed his eyes at Fenris. "That sounds ominous."

"Perhaps, but probably not in the way you're thinking."

Artemis looked no less concerned.

"Apparently, after a particular merchant in Carastes complained, toilet lids were made with wards to prevent krakens from rising out of the sewers to--" Fenris rested his forehead on Artemis's chest, trying to hold off his cackling. "-- to steal pickled fish. I have to assume his servants were grateful to the beast for getting that stench out of the house."

He'd pass on the tale of the kraken stealing magisters' wives. That one probably wouldn't ease Artie's mind. It probably wasn't true, either, unless the krakens were summoned and under the control of rival magisters. Which, really, it was Tevinter. He couldn't rule that out.

"They are no worse than your brother's dog," Fenris assured him, with another quick kiss and roll of his hips. "They are simply larger and wetter and less furry. And to the best of my knowledge, they do not fart on the pillows in the middle of the night."

"That is... not the kind of pillow talk I'd like us to be having," Artie said, adjusting the grip of his legs around Fenris's waist. "And don't tell Anton about any of that. He'd want to add one to the zoo that is the Amell Estate."

"Kirkwall _is_ a port city. That would be horrifying." But Fenris looked more amused than horrified as he tried to resume their earlier rhythm. "Now, where were we?"

"If I recall correctly, my strong and gorgeous husband was about to pound me through the mattress." Artemis chased more sparks down Fenris's back, fingers following lyrium paths he knew even without seeing them.

"Through it?" Fenris sounded scandalised, even as he drove himself in, harder and faster. "Now that sounds dangerous. We should be more careful with no healer to save us the trouble of the day after we fall through the bed."

Rolling his hips, Fenris pounded into Artemis's warm, waiting body, for a few moments, every second thrust in time with the rolling of the sea beneath them. "Of course, this bed seems sturdy. Not even a creak. Should I try harder?"

A groan spilled from Artemis, the sound broken up by each of Fenris's thrusts. " _Yes_. Clearly you must!" Artie aimed for his words to be teasing, but they came out breathy instead. Any clever words Artemis may have had skittered out of reach as Fenris redoubled his efforts. " _Fen_!"

This time the mattress did creak, but Fenris was more focused on the lovely sounds his husband was making, the aching way he said his name. Every thrust forced more delicious and desperate sounds out of Artemis, and Fenris let them all wash over him, the desire tugging at him in places Artie's hands couldn't reach. He braced his own hand on the wall, to keep from smacking Artemis's head against it, with the force of his thrusts, and just kept pounding into the beautiful mage beneath him.

His own breath began to stutter and he rested his head on Artemis's shoulder to slip a hand down between them, wrapping it around Artemis's knob, and stroking roughly. There were supposed to be words, but all that made it out of his mouth was a heated groan as he tried to hold off long enough to satisfy his husband -- it was, he'd learnt, never wise to get Artemis started and then leave him unfinished.

Pleasure sparked hot at the base of his spine, heels digging into Fenris's back as his toes curled. In that moment, Artemis forgot where they were, forgot that a world existed outside of this room, this bed, this man, as his ragged shouts echoed around them. Except... there _was_ a world outside, something that the prickle of magic under his skin reminded him, and Artie had the presence of mind to remember 'no earthquakes'. And 'no surprise lightning' either, for that matter.

His vision sparked and flashed white, his hips bucking off of the bed as he spilled over Fenris's fingers, mouth open around a ragged exhale. Magic spilled off of him like it always did, but the boat rocked and didn't shake, and there was no sudden jolt of electricity. Artie couldn't be sure where his magic had gone, but in that blissful, floating moment he did not care.

"Amatus...?" Fenris breathed, after the magic washed over him with none of the usual effects. "Amatus, did you wax the kraken?" He chuckled against Artie's neck, hoping that wasn't what had happened. A brief investigation of the wall, with his fingers, showed no signs of mage-wax, so he thought they might have avoided that horror. But, there had been... something. He tucked his head under Artemis's chin and studied the room as he caught his breath. He couldn't remember either of them throwing clothing at the door, but there was what looked like a piece of grey cloth wadded up at the crack under it. Maybe something had slid across the floor, when the boat tipped, but he didn't remember either of them owning anything that colour. His eyes lingered as he tried to figure out what it was.

"Mmm?" Artemis nibbled lazily at Fenris's ear, looking past his shoulder at the window. The tentacles were still there, blocking his view of the water. "No, the kraken appears free of mage wax. A shame, really. I would have liked to see its tentacles sliding and flailing down the window." He buried his nose in Fenris's hair and hummed contentedly, wrapping his arms around his elf. He didn't notice what Fenris was looking at, and for the moment, he was content in knowing that he hadn't damaged the boat, at least not in any dramatic or immediately noticeable way.

"I'm sure waxing the kraken would not have ended well for us. I am still curious, though." Fenris ignored the strange cloth and tipped his head up to nibble at the line of Artemis's jaw. Whatever that was, it would wait. It was probably a dustrag.

His curiosity was short-lived, as the shouting started in the hall. "The fuck is this?" a sailor called out. "We've got something blocking the passenger corridor! It's stuck on one of the doors!"

"Shit," Fenris muttered, and then called out to the sailor. "Is that our door? We're in six!"

"Yeah, sorry, guys! We'll get you out of there! Did you hear anything?"

"Sorry, we've been asleep!" Fenris called back.

"'Asleep'," Artemis huffed against Fenris's hair, but he twisted to get a look at the door, finally noticing the odd wad of fabric Fenris had been confused by. "What did I do?"

Fenris heard the hint of worry in Artie's voice, and he smoothed a hand down Artie's side, pressed a kiss to Artie's collarbone. "Nothing too terrible, it seems, assuming that _was_ you. It looks like we are locked in here for a little while, however. I'm sure we can think of ways to pass the time."

"So I should hold off on, ah, shoving the door open?" Lazily, his fingers traced the lines of Fenris's back.

"Holy shit," another sailor commented, followed by a long whistle. "It's ... I've never seen the walls this clean. It's like everything ran down the hall and slapped itself on this door. Andraste's flaming tits! What would do this?"

"It's not the kraken, is it?" the first sailor asked. Sounds from the other side of the door suggested they were scraping the collected funk off. "A magical kraken? We give it fish and it cleans our ship?"

"Do you have any idea how stupid that sounds?" the second sailor shot back. "I'm getting a crate. We can peel this off and throw it overboard."

Fenris chuckled quietly. "Do you hear them? A magical kraken. Let us not disturb their sense of wonder." He purred -- something he would never admit to doing -- and rolled onto his side, pulling Artemis with him. "I am always afraid I will crush you, if I lie on you too long."

"There are worse ways to go," Artemis replied, reaching down to pull the blanket up over them. He waved at the kraken before cuddling close to Fenris. "I have a feeling that kraken will be well fed from now on." He reached up to brush Fenris's sweaty hair back from his face, hand lingering on his cheek. "I do love you, you know." Cormac was much better at his declarations of love, or at least at making them sound poetic between streams of filth. Artemis envied that.

"Any doubts I have ever had of that were his fault, not yours." Fenris wound himself around Artemis, pulling his mage close to his body and thanking Anders for the pain it didn't cause him. Anders was right, of course -- his skin would start to bother him again -- but, for now he could enjoy pressing it against the man he loved. "You have always been kind to me, even when I didn't understand. I could never have imagined such patience. And now, you beg for my touch, every night, and I could never have imagined such impatience, either," he teased, pressing a kiss to Artemis's lips.

"Can you blame me?" Artemis laughed, one eyebrow twitching up. "Not that you weren't dashing in those Ander robes, but it's good to see you back in those gloriously tight pants and better still to see you out of them." He pressed another kiss to Fenris's lips, ignoring the muffled cursing of the sailors scraping the doors. "Thank you for coming with me. Only a truly devoted husband would suffer through so much fish stink."


	40. Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nameday festivities with the Hawkes. Yet another assortment of inappropriate dinner table conversation.

Bodhan checked the table one last time, patting Orana on the shoulder, as he passed through the kitchen to take up near the door. It was the twins' nameday, and people would be arriving soon. He just hoped Anton would actually make it down the stairs before then -- this viscount thing had been getting a little rough, and Anton was starting to show the strain, just like poor Ser Cullen, who never did look quite as well as he had when they first met.

In fact, there was Cullen now. Bodhan stepped aside as the door swung open and Cullen stepped in, shaking his hand.

"Anton, I'm home! Tell me you're at least wearing trousers!" Cullen called down the hall as he made his way toward the seemingly infinite tangle of rooms that composed the Hawke estate. "Through the ballroom, to the left, right?" he asked Bodhan, who nodded, before returning to the door.

Messeres Fa-- er, that is, Messeres Fenris and Artemis arrived exactly at the prescribed time, almost uncomfortably punctual, and Bodhan greeted them both with a nod and a pleasant smile. 

"Good to see you, Bodhan!" Artemis said, and Fenris hummed his agreement. "Which room are we in? And, uh, what shall I do with...?" He held up a wrapped package tied with a blue bow.

"Dining room off the ballroom, Messere. There's a side table set up for gifts."

That left their other dinner guests arriving fashionably late, Charade with a particularly huffy looking Gamlen in tow. Bodhan bid them a good evening and repeated his instructions, wondering how late Ser Carver was planning to be for his own party.

Bethany appeared, at last, from somewhere deeper in the house, pulling Anton by the ear, while Cullen followed, looking amused.

"I told you not to try that on your sister," Cullen said, shaking his head, as he held open the door of the dining room. "I have sisters. I knew that wasn't going to work."

"You haven't seen your sisters since you were thirteen, except for the wedding!" Anton squawked, from where his face almost rested on Bethany's shoulder. "I told you, Bethy! I was just going to finish the details on that contract! I'd have been right down!"

"You've been saying that for two hours," Bethany scoffed, shoving her brother into a chair and straightening the collar of the shirt she and Cullen had just stuffed him into. "The contract will wait until tomorrow, unless it's with the Carta, in which case it will wait until tomorrow and _I'll_ deliver it."

Cullen took a seat and leaned forward, in front of his husband, to greet Charade. "Is your side of the family like this?" 

Charade pointed to Gamlen and raised an eyebrow. "I think it's an Amell thing."

"I'm going to ignore that," Gamlen grumbled, mollified when Orana appeared at his elbow with a full glass of wine. "Ah, good. Glad someone is on top of things."

Orana smiled politely and poured for Charade next, giving her a more generous amount of wine. "Now, dad, don't start," Charade sighed.

"Start what?"

Charade shook her head and shrugged at Cullen. "See what I mean?"

"I still don't understand what the problem is," Anton said. "Our other brother isn't even here yet, and I don't see you manhandling him!"

"Oh, you will," Bethany said with the sweetest smile. She sat at the head of the table, smoothing out her skirts.

Artie's brow furrowed. "Well, Cormac is -- oh. You meant our _other_ other brother. The... one whose nameday it is today." He coughed awkwardly into his fist and reached automatically for his glass, only to remember that it was still empty. "Yes, where is the asshole of the hour?"

"You're the asshole of every hour," Carver said from the doorway behind him. He was still in his plate, face sweaty and streaked with dirt. Bethany looked him over, lips thinning in an expression that reminded Carver eerily of mum. "Sorry. Demon hunting was a little... extra demony today." 

Merrill peeked out from behind his armoured bulk and waved at the table. "Hello, everyone! Happy nameday, Bethany!"

"Come in and get a seat before Carver smears blood and dirt on everything!" Bethany waved cheerfully at Merrill and gestured at a chair near Carver's at the far end of the table.

"I'm not smearing dirt on anything!" Carver protested, as Bodhan handed him a damp rag. "Except maybe Artie."

"If you're smearing dirt on Artie, take it outside," Anton insisted, bracing his hands on the table like he might get up. "I don't need breakfast turning into a magical slapfight."

Cullen looked up, suddenly, and glared over his shoulder at Carver. "Don't do it. You'll be cleaning chamber pots for a month."

"Do _what_?" Carver scrubbed at the mud on his face and plate with the rag. "I wasn't even thinking it!" Which, of course, he had been, before realising that with the size of the room he'd hit his sister and Merrill, too.

"Please do not smear dirt on Artie inside the house or outside the house," Artemis said, glowering at Carver. "Just because it's your nameday doesn't mean I won't make you regret it later." His fingers itched to clean a bit of dirt and gunk from Carver's armour.

"Fine. I won't touch you." Keeping eye-contact with his brother, Carver finished wiping down and set the rag on the tablecloth directly in front of him.

Artie's eye twitched. "Get the dirty rag off the table. You're getting... The tablecloth..."

Clearing his throat, Bodhan reached past Carver's shoulder and plucked up the rag. "Pardon me, Messere." There was a wet spot on the table where the rag had sat, but Artie tried not to look at that.

"I wouldn't push your luck, Carver," Fenris offered, with a hint of amusement. "Your brother has discovered some new skills in his time away from Kirkwall."

"I don't want to know about any of them. Especially if you were involved." Carver's armour clattered as he shuddered and sat down at last. "Happy nameday, Beth. I'll bring your gift by tomorrow. I just didn't want to get any demons on it."

"Dreadfully polite of you, dear brother," Bethany said, with a slim smile. "Pass me the honey, won't you, uncle?"

Gamlen set the pot in Bethany's outstretched hand, still eyeing her suspiciously. Mages. In his family. He didn't think he'd ever get used to the idea, not that these were even the first of them.

"We found some strange, new demons, today!" Merrill said, cheerily. "I think they were just waiting for the right time, and with it being Carver's nameday, it just worked out. Very strange. I'm going to have to check some more of the First Enchanter's books. I've never seen anything like them, before."

"Demons for my nameday," Carver huffed, gesturing for Bethany to send the honey down to his end of the table so he could put it in his wine, "just what I always wanted."

"New demons?" Cullen asked, eyes sharp. 

Merrill's hum of affirmation echoed in her wine goblet. She set the cup down and licked her lips. "Oh, yes! There were these strange ones, twice my height, long and skeletal, with tails and nasty claws! They popped out of the ground like this!" She made a grating, high-pitched shrieking noise and raised her arms over her head, splaying her fingers as though aiming her claws at Carver.

"Please don't do that," grumbled Carver, leaning away from her. She made another, hurt sounding shriek in protest. "That thing nearly made me jump out of my armour."

"Well, good thing you didn't," Merrill said, lowering her arms again. "You needed that armour."

Carver looked mildly ill. "So yeah. New demons. And they weren't popping out of the ground to throw a surprise party and offer me cake."

"Are you sure?" asked Artie. "That screeching might have been their way of offering you a 'happy nameday'!"

"They tried to stab me in the face. I'm sure."

"In fairness, I hear that's a common problem for you," Gamlen added.

Charade leaned forward to see past Anton. "So, Ser Cullen! You have siblings. Are they like this? Is this a sibling thing? I can't tell. I've been fortunate in that regard."

There was a small burbling sound as Cullen tried not to laugh into his wine and failed. "They are absolutely like this, but with less demons at the dinner table. I'm the only one in my family who went into a magical line of work," he said, blotting at the wine he'd dribbled down his chin.

"My sister isn't like this," Fenris protested, gesturing with a roll he'd stuffed with salad. "She is a decent and reasonable person who acts like an adult, even in my presence." He tried to ignore the last time she'd visited, or Spurius's birthday party, or ... really, she was very much like everyone else's siblings, especially as she got more used to living in the south.

Artemis snorted. "Your sister is every bit as bad as my asshole siblings, and you know it." Munching on his salad, he gave Fenris a dry look.

"I know no such thing," Fenris sniffed.

"Your sister brought a magister to your wedding," Carver replied, mouth full of bread. "I think she set the standard for 'asshole sibling', and I'm saying that as someone related to Cormac."

Artemis turned a hard look on Carver, fork pointing in his direction. "Don't start."

"Carver, don't talk with your mouth full," Bethany cut in, interrupting Carver as he was opening his mouth to respond. "I just got a better view of your half masticated bread roll than I ever needed."

Carver scowled and stuck out his tongue, but he paused to swallow what was in his mouth.

"I didn't have this problem with my sister," Gamlen declared, serving himself more pickled cabbage salad. "My sister was a delight. Even if everyone did like her better."

"They liked her better because you're a shit, uncle," Anton assured Gamlen.

"And then she raised five asshole kids who have no respect. None. Do you see my daughter acting like this?" Gamlen huffed, taking a large bite.

"To be fair, dad, you didn't have anything to do with raising me," Charade pointed out.

"And we found her after she sent us on a wild goose chase for the Gem of Keroshek, which I'm pretty sure is typical Amell behaviour," Bethany added, winking at Charade.

"Hey, I'm good at what I do. Sorry about almost getting your brother killed. That wasn't part of the plan." Charade shrugged apologetically and grinned at Bethany.

"Which is odd, since I'm pretty sure with most people that _is_ part of the plan." Bethany sighed and took some more roast -- crispy on the outside, just the way she liked it.

"Nearly killing a Hawke is practically a rite of passage to becoming a part of the family," Artemis added. He tipped his head in Fenris's direction. "It was love at first near death experience."

Fenris sighed into his goblet and offered Artemis a pained look. "That probably isn't a story you should tell so often. One of these days, a Hawke will remember to try to punch me for it."

"Not it!" volunteered Anton. "I don't make a habit of punching broody death elves."

Cullen cleared his throat, speaking to the salad he was pushing around his plate as he said, "I would like to point out that I have managed not to almost kill a Hawke of any kind, though often the temptation has been great." He narrowed an unconvincing glare Anton's way. His husband smiled back sweetly. "Does that mean I'm not actually a part of the family? Do I need to make an attempt on Carver's life?"

"Hey!" Carver protested.


	41. Chapter 41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts on the Amells. More things one shouldn't say at family dinners.

"You did almost take our other brother to the Gallows. I'm sure that counts," Bethany reminded him. "Cormac had to flee the city and everything. Of course, Cormac having to flee the city is becoming a trend..."

"Did he really collapse the Chantry?" Charade asked, mouth full of candied fruit rinds. "I've heard all these rumours about everything from an accident with the dwarven work crew to crazed mages using spooky Tevinter magic. Someone said dragons, last week."

"The official story is that it had become structurally unstable, and the floor gave out while they were trying to reinforce it." Cullen shrugged easily. "The Chantry work crews say most of what they've found looks like that's true, but there's some bits of the top of the building that ended up in strange places -- of course, no one's really sure what was up that far. They can't find anyone who'd been up to the top of the towers in the last twenty years, so it's possible it was old Tevinter stuff." He glanced at Charade and shook his head. "I don't know. I wasn't there."

"All I know is that Cormac ran in and told me to get everyone out of the Chantry, because it was coming down. He said they'd believe me, but they might not believe him. Which, to be entirely fair, is probably true. Cormac didn't have many noble graces, and he'd at least mildly offended at least half of Hightown by declining to date their daughters." Bethany laughed and sipped her wine.

"Your brother's not...?" Charade asked, eyebrow arcing up.

"No, that's Artie. Cormac's just into a different class of women. The kind who can deadlift him and who take no prisoners." Anton snorted in amusement, not letting on that Cormac's taste fairly solidly overlapped his own, in that regard.

Cullen opened and closed his mouth, that description reminding him of Meredith. He decided not to add that comment and bent back over his salad.

"I heard you threw Sebastian over your shoulder and carried him out," Artie said to his sister. "Is Sebastian into women who can deadlift him too?"

"If by 'deadlift' you mean using the dead to lift them," Carver muttered to Merrill out of the corner of his mouth.

Merrill giggled into her hand. "I didn't realise Sebastian was that kinky!" she whispered back, which made Carver's face twist in horror.

One of Bethany's eyebrows twitched up. "What are we whispering about, over there?"

"Nothing anyone wants to hear, I suspect," Fenris drawled, stealing an olive off of Artemis's plate.

Gamlen stabbed at his salad as though it had done him personal harm. "This family..." he sighed.

"What about this family?" Anton asked with an obnoxious smile.

"This is how your mother ended up running off with a mage, despite all of our better judgement," Gamlen sighed, shaking his fork at Anton.

"Mages can be terribly enticing," Fenris admitted around a mouthful of roast. "They are few and far between, but... I have seen the appeal."

"You're Tevinter!" Gamlen snapped. "For the rest of us, it's a little different."

The table fell silent, everyone looking at Gamlen, except Charade, who kept eating.

"Are you going to tell him?" Anton looked at Artemis and chuckled. "No, no. I'll tell him." He wiped his hands off on his napkin and leaned around Charade to tap on Gamlen's forehead. "Do you know what they do to elves, in Tevinter? No? Neither do I, but he does. It's different for him the _other way_."

"I did think he was going to kill you," Carver admitted, from the other end of the table. "And I was right, too. He almost did."

"There were _demons_." Fenris sounded entirely aggrieved, ears twitching at the accusation.

"Oh! And now there are presents! Why don't we open presents?" Merrill jumped up and darted toward the table that held them. "We've had enough demons for one day."

"Yes, we should save some demons for your birthday," Carver muttered as Merrill plucked the packages off the table and set them out in front of the twins.

"Oh, you all shouldn't have," Bethany said as though she hadn't been expecting presents.

"Oh, we should have, and we did," Artie said, nudging the gift from him and Fenris her way. "A souvenir from the Anderfels, one for each of you!"

"An Ander souvenir?" Carver asked, eyes narrowed at the package in his sister's hands. "Should I be worried?"

"For once, no," Fenris assured him.

Delicately, Bethany untied the ribbon, blue like her dress, and set it aside before tearing into the package. Wrapped in paper, she found two brightly coloured figurines in a style that made her think of Fereldan nights by the fireplace. Her face split into a grin. "Oh, aren't they precious!" she said. "Didn't mum and dad used to have figurines like these? Not these figures, exactly, but..."

Anton sat up in his chair, craning his neck try to get a look at them. "Oh yeah! I remember those!"

"We got you Solona and Alistair, a mage and templar!" Artie beamed. "It seemed fitting."

"Solona...?" Gamlen looked up and glanced at the figure Bethany was holding. "Isn't that your cousin's name?"

"Apparently the Ander people are extremely fond of Grey Wardens. We couldn't find the archdemon battle one, before we left -- that one apparently came with a dragon and a sword. Instead we brought you griffons." Fenris offered Bethany a small smile. "So, yes, that is your cousin."

"That is not!" Cullen was out of his seat before he finished the sentence, circling behind Bethany's chair, to get a closer look. "They gave her giant..." He gestured in front of his chest. "Your cousin is a much more reasonable shape. Or she was the last time I saw her."

"You know, I wonder, sometimes, what happened to the rest of Revka's kids..." Gamlen stared intently into his plate. "Or Revka."

"What do you mean?" Anton squinted at his uncle curiously. "I thought there was just Solona. I mean, we have the letter that came to mum, and ... it just said her daughter got taken away."

"And then she just disappeared, one night. Nobody knows what happened to her. Of course, after your mother..."

Carver pointed up the table with the silver-painted figure in his hand. "Don't say it. Don't start."

"I'm just saying she's been gone for almost thirty years. A couple months later, her husband packed up the other four kids and wouldn't tell anyone where they were moving to. Somewhere that didn't remind him of his missing wife and daughter, most likely." Gamlen picked up his wine glass and twirled it in his fingers. "I doubt the kids even remember me, wherever they ended up."

Artie exchanged a look with Anton. "I didn't realise we had other cousins," he said. "I wonder where they went off to. The Amells could be taking over Thedas!"

Cullen sucked in a breath, only to think better of saying something. Bethany twisted to look up at him, catching that look. "What is it?" she asked. "You look uncomfortable about something."

"I wouldn't say uncomfortable," Cullen replied, picking up the Solona figurine and turning it over in his fingers. "It's probably my templar training talking, but that sounds suspicious. A child is discovered to be a mage and given to the Circle, and then both parents and the rest of her siblings disappear?"

"You're thinking Solona wasn't the only mage?" Fenris said, eyebrows creeping up.

Cullen shrugged, a non-committal sound catching in his throat. "Magic does run in the family."

"They might have just missed their daughter," Charade said. "Maybe the father left with his kids because his old home reminded him of his wife and the daughter he'd lost. Maybe he just want them all to start fresh."

Carver squinted at Cullen. "Can we find them, if they're mages? I mean, assuming they got taken to a circle, somewhere, and not just executed as apostates."

"Yes, but even if we find them, what good is it?" Anton asked, shrugging at his brother. "With all the shit going on with the Circle, right now, it's not like anyone's going to let us write to them."

"Cullen?" Charade leaned past Anton with a smile. "Teach me how Circles work. I bet I know some people. We have more family out there, and I've only found half of them."

"I suppose it's a good thing father had such a large dining room table," Gamlen sighed. "Try not to get yourself killed, girl. I've already lost my sister. You're much too young for that."

"You're thinking we can bring them back to Kirkwall?" Bethany asked, shifting in her seat and leaning forward interestedly, Solona and the griffon sitting by her elbow. "I'm sure we could find them something to do here."

"More of our family in this city?" Artemis said with a soft laugh. "Would Kirkwall survive it?"

"Probably not," Anton replied, slouching back in his chair, "but only because I don't think Bran would survive it." He grinned, swirling his wine in its goblet.

"I hope you haven't been tormenting the man too much," Bethany tsked, lining up the figurines, Alistair and Solona and their griffons.

"I like to think I torment him just enough, thank you." Anton reached across the table and galloped one of the griffons across to Merrill's plate, making the sort of screechy noises he assumed a griffon would make.

Merrill giggled. "Are you after my wine, Ser Griffon?" 

Bethany shook her head at her brother's antics and rose to kiss their older brother on the cheek. "Thank you, Artie," she said. "They're adorable."

"Yes, thanks," Carver added. "Don't expect me to kiss you, though."

Bethany picked up the next package, looking at the ribbon painted with the Amell crest. "Anton, really? Was that necessary?"

"I'm the Viscount of Kirkwall. Shit like that just happens when I ask to have things shipped out already wrapped." Anton shrugged defensively and poured more wine for himself.

"Shipped out? Something foreign, then!" Bethany unwrapped the paper and opened the box. "You didn't. Oh, Anton, what even --"

"I couldn't get you a real one. I'd have to have assassinated one of the Mortalitasi for that, and I just couldn't justify starting a war with Nevarra." Anton grinned quickly, and drank more wine. It was a day for wine.

Bethany lifted the skull out of the box, studying the jewels and gold that wound around it like some strange flowering plant, and Cullen shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"It's not actually magical, Ser Cullen," Bethany assured him.

"No, but it is actually someone's head." Cullen's face twitched. "Anton! How could you-- what even--!"

"It's perfect, Anton," Bethany said, with some finality. "I know exactly where to put it in the library."

"It's someone's head!" Cullen said, again.

"Well, it's not like they're using it any more!" Anton protested, before wrapping an arm around his husband. "And really, wouldn't you like a nice memorial like that, if you died?"

"Anton Hawke, my skull better still be attached to my body when I'm cremated, or so help me I will come back to haunt you!"

"Is that so?" Anton purred.

"And not in a fun way! Put those wiggling eyebrows away!" Cullen put a hand on Anton's face and pushed him away.

Bethany slid a second, matching package down the table, and Charade helped it along until it met Carver, who eyed it like it was about to do him bodily harm. "Should I be worried about this? You didn't bring me someone's bejewelled body part, did you?"

Fenris leaned into Artemis. "Want to place bets as to which body part?"

"Why don't you open it and find out?" Anton asked with the sweetest of smiles.

Carver looked askance at him and opened the package as though he were disarming a trap. He blinked down at its contents. "What is this?"

"It's a puppet!" Anton attempted to look enthusiastic. "I was actually looking for something nice for Bethany, but I was down in the market by the shop that does the puppets for the performances in the keep's gardens, and I saw that and thought of you. The guy tells me it's a demon -- the most accurate demon puppet ever made, straight from illustrations by Chantry scholars." He paused. "On the other hand, it looks nothing like any demon I've ever seen, and it's Kirkwall, so I've seen a few."

"You got me... a demon." Carver glared up the table. "Is this a joke?"

"Well, you're a demon hunter, aren't you? Seemed like you should have some kind of token of that."

"I have a sword."

Merrill giggled. "He has an excellent sword. He's the best sworder in Kirkwall."

Gamlen gazed down the table in horror and Cullen rested his head on the edge of the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you miss the August Fan Chat? Well, you can [vote on when](http://doodle.com/poll/a7t9rue66xbdv9t8) we should hold September's!


	42. Chapter 42

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First Enchanter Tim takes some of the Enchanters out for a drink that is interrupted by a messenger from Val Royeaux.

First Enchanter Tim couldn't remember when it had become the new normal, walking into places like the Blooming Rose as though he, a mage, belonged there. And he did belong there, now, he reminded himself, just as he belonged anywhere any citizen of Kirkwall did. The best reminder of this was the drink in his hand, the table full of mages and the mages full of food. 

"So," said Tim as he waved for more wine, "what's it like being back in Kirkwall?"

"I'd say I missed it," said the woman directly across from him, "but this isn't exactly the Kirkwall I knew. That and I don't miss that Kirkwall, anyway." 

"Aw, but surely you missed _me_ , sunshine?" teased the man next to her.

"Not in the slightest. But, really, is this how things are, now? We go down for a few drinks at the Rose like normal people? And no one cares?"

"Someone might care if you got drunk and tried to put on a show of fireworks above the bar," Tim said with a long-suffering look, "but yes, this is how things are, now."

"Don't do that," said the heavily scarred man next to Tim. "That happened once. The Circle can't afford to pay any more damages."

"Must've been recent, if Yemeth remembers it," the woman across from Tim joked. "How did you get back here before me? I'd have figured you'd have run off to join the Qun or something."

"There's always room for more mercenaries, along the coast." Yemeth paused, squinting his blinded-looking eyes at her. "But, your name. I did forget your name. Took a few hits from a warhammer and the healers couldn't get everything back."

"Irene," she said, rolling her eyes. "I'm Irene, and the healers never get your head right. I'm not convinced it was right to begin with."

Yemeth opened his mouth to protest, only to pause and think that over. "I wish I could argue that, but I honestly don't remember."

Tim patted Yemeth's arm. It was solid enough that the sleeves strained at the seams. "Then I suppose I oughtn't ask you what you think of the new Kirkwall?" he asked, lightly teasing. Yemeth had, at the least, treated his condition with a sense of humour.

"You could ask, but my answer might not be as helpful. The wine is good, though. Even if I'd nothing to compare it to, I could still make that observation."

"Agreed," said the mage to the other side of Yemeth, who was already well into his third glass.

"You might want to lay off a bit," Irene said, shaking her head. "You've been out how long? You must be used to going to bars by now."

"Ah, but how many years without wine did we suffer?" the heavy-drinking mage replied.

A young woman approached the table, dressed in leather, a pair of long-knives easy to hand. "Excuse me, is one of you Tim? I was told I could find First Enchanter Tim here."

Tim nodded, and one of the empty chairs slid out as he gestured to it. "Take a seat. I am that Tim. What can I do for you?"

The young woman looked confusedly at the seat for a long moment, before sitting gingerly. "I come to you from Divine Justinia and Grand Enchanter Fiona. There is to be a conclave at the White Spire in Val Royeaux on a controversial new magic that has been brought to the attention of the College of Enchanters."

"There is no longer a College of Enchanters," Tim corrected, sadly.

"The Divine has called a conclave. There will be a College of Enchanters as long as the Divine decrees. She understands if you cannot be there, because of the ... special needs of the City of Kirkwall, but she strongly encourages all the First Enchanters to make the effort," the messenger replied, handing over a small packet. "I have sealed documentation regarding the nature of the discovery. We ask that this information not be made available outside the Circle until after the conclave decides what to make of it."

She held Tim's stare for a long moment to make sure the seriousness of her statement sank in, and Tim gave her a bemused look as he turned the package over in his hands. 

"Well, now I'm absolutely burning with curiosity," he said. From the looks on his friends' faces, they were too. Carefully, Tim slid a thumb under the seal and pulled it open, pulling the paper out just enough to read the first few lines. It only took those first few lines for his expression to sober, and at Yemeth's questioning glance, he shook his head. 

"I understand the Divine's desire to keep this quiet," Tim said in a suitably hushed voice. He shook his head. "But I... do not know that I can go to the Conclave, not just now. Despite how much I think Kirkwall should have a voice in these... discussions."

"I'll have them leave a seat for you, just in case. Kirkwall's voice, in particular, would be valuable, here. Kirkwall's voice at all would be valuable, in these times, if only to prove the conditions of the city after the revolt." The messenger smiled thinly, moving like she meant to stand.

"Prove the conditions, serah?" Yemeth asked, eyeing the messenger. "You sound like you don't approve."

"That's 'Sister' to you." The messenger rose eyes on the scarred mage across the table. "I haven't been here long enough to approve or disapprove. But, the city appears much like it has been described by the merchants I travelled with, which is a pleasant surprise. One can never be sure, asking people whose business is selling. Is it true the Alienage was rebuilt by dwarves?"

"And mages," Irene cut in. "Dwarves and mages, in just a couple of months, and look now at the Chantry. A year and more, and they haven't yet managed to fill in and finish the foundations."

"And the mages and dwarves have offered to help with that but have been politely declined," Tim added, uncertain how the Sister with the knives would take that.

The messenger nodded, face carefully neutral. "How interesting," she said. "Perhaps I will take a look at the Alienage before I leave the city."

"Are you certain you don't want to stay for a drink, Sister?" Tim asked, gesturing with his wine glass. "The more wine the rest of us drink, the less goes into Edgar." He glanced at the mage draining his third glass.

"I am unsure that would be wise, First Enchanter," she said, lips tilting in a wry smile. "I hope you are able to join the Conclave." She tipped her head in farewell and left without another word.

"More wine for me then," said Edgar, trying to get the barmaid's attention.

Yemeth took the empty wine glass out of his hand. "You're cut off."


	43. Chapter 43

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bethany submits a treaty proposal to Starkhaven.

Nathaniel and Jenet stood close, behind Nathaniel's desk, studying the forty-eighth page of the treaty included with Lady Amell's counterproposal, and Nathaniel wondered if it was actually getting warmer in the room. He'd have to remember to write to Lady Cousland, later. Dear Elissa would be so amused with this.

"I don't see she's asking anything unusual," Jenet said, turning to the next page. "So far, it's the basic rates of trade and exchange and the agreement that if Tevinter comes down or a Blight happens, we'll come to each others' defence. Fairly standard for treaties in the Marches, as far as I've noticed."

"She's just warming up," Nathaniel speculated, squinting at the next page. "She's going to ask for something small, something subtle, something Sebastian's going to overlook, that's going to put her in -- There." He tapped the page. "Here's where she starts breaking form. She's put forth demands for Starkhaven to rebuild the Circle and then implement changes to ensure mages have similar rights to Kirkwall mages. She's not going all the way, but it's definitely calling for citizenship and the right to correspondence, property, and commerce, and that within five years, mages may no longer be imprisoned on the implied threat of future crimes, but only on evidence of past crimes, like any other citizen. Not as subtle as I expected, but given Kirkwall, not really unexpected. She's opening the way for mage merchants to establish trade in both cities. On the other hand, this is likely to end in an Exalted March."

"We can't possibly hold off a March," Jenet looked pensive.

"I work for the woman who slew the archdemon. I was there for the battle against a Knight-Commander who couldn't be struck with a sword. Broodmothers. I'm not even talking about the broodmothers. I'm pretty sure whatever the Chantry throws at us, it's going to be a matter of numbers, not horrors. Numbers isn't that difficult, if we have a good tactician -- and from what I've heard, Kirkwall does, even if we don't."

Jenet wiped a hand over his face. "So, our options are: if Prince Sebastian doesn't marry Lady Amell, Starkhaven may march on Kirkwall, but if he does marry her in accordance with this treaty, the Chantry might march on Starkhaven. That is a lovely pair of options, but I suppose the second one seems like less of an immediate risk. So, what now? We show him the treaty and pray he doesn't notice that clause?"

"Best not let it be a nasty surprise," Nate replied, still skimming over the document. "I'll talk to him. Occasionally someone needs to remind him of his priorities."

"Only occasionally?" Jenet muttered, turning the next page. The rest of the treaty was as expected, and Jenet hoped Sebastian loved this woman enough to agree to it.

* * *

  
They caught Sebastian as he came out of the throne room. "No," he said, holding up a finger in their direction. "Whatever it is, the answer is no. I want supper before I have to think about anything you have to say to me -- especially you, Howe."

"Well, it's a pity you've just turned down supper with us, then!" Jenet crowed, taking advantage of the situation. "Since that's what we'd come to ask you to. Join us, Prince Sebastian. We were going to get some Nevarran sent up from that place by the river. You like Nevarran, don't you?"

And that just reminded Sebastian of Bethany, and how they used to sit in the market in Kirkwall, eating Nevarran food and listening to Tyrone tell stories about Nevarra. He glared at Jenet.

"Come on, Vael. You obviously need to eat something, and I know you like the place by the river. You get food sent up every time you start getting maudlin about Lady Amell." Nathaniel pulled out the letter, but left the treaty tucked under his jacket. "She's written you a letter, too."

"A letter?" Sebastian grabbed it from Nathaniel, looking hopeful one moment and wary the next. He didn't open it just yet. "Is it about the wedding? She hasn't changed her mind, has she?" After all, they had spent so many months apart, and Bethany was a beautiful woman, likely with many suitors.

Nathaniel barked a laugh at the question and clapped a hand on Sebastian's shoulder. "About marrying you? No, though Maker knows why. She does have a few stipulations, all of which are perfectly reasonable, but that's a discussion for after food."

Sebastian sighed wearily, still holding the letter as though unsure if he should open it. "Nevarran would be lovely," he decided, nodding to Jenet. "But you both seem much too cheerful for me to be anything but concerned."

"You're just hungry, Vael. Petitions are great for making someone hungry and cranky. Wine and food, on the other hand, are great for making someone less hungry and cranky, at least in my experience."

Sebastian allowed Nathaniel to steer him down the hall but gave him a flat look. "You say this like you aren't usually a cranky drunk."

"Vael, my father murdered my fiancée's entire family, after sending me up to the Marches, so I wouldn't see him do it, and lost my title in the process. I'm just lucky he didn't kill my future wife. I'm not cranky, I'm justifiably fed up with Thedas and nearly everyone in it." Nathaniel offered a bleak grin. "You should meet her. You could commiserate about your similar circumstances."

"... What?" Sebastian blinked at Nathaniel.

"Not much for Fereldan politics? Neither am I. During the Blight, I'm told."

"He's engaged to Lady Cousland," Jenet filled in. "The teyrn's sister."

"Cousland? Are you sure that was your father? I thought he had an alliance with the Couslands!" Sebastian looked a bit startled -- he'd been in the Chantry at the time, and the details of foreign politics hadn't reached him for years. "Couldn't it have been darkspawn?"

"I wish it was darkspawn. Do you know how many darkspawn I've killed? But, no. The Warden-Commander and a crazy dwarf solved that one -- right across the head with a battle-axe, as I recall." Nathaniel tried to smooth his hair, but ended up tangling it in the buttons on his cuff. "I wasn't there for that, but they told me about it later."

"Varric was in Ferelden?" Sebastian asked, amazed.

Nathaniel blinked. "What? No, different dwarf. Different crazy. Considerably less well-groomed than Varric."

"I see," said Sebastian, eyes still a bit wide.

* * *

  
Later found them in Sebastian's study, Nevarran food laid out across his desk, an extra chair brought in from another room. The dining room had been an option, but Sebastian found the cavernous room and long table absurd for just the three of them. He preferred to have his conversations not echo.

Another benefit was the soft chair by the fireplace, and with a fire warming his toes and food gradually filling his belly, Sebastian felt relaxed and sleepy.

"I swear the Merchants' Guild sends someone every day," he said in the midst of his complaining, "each time with a more asinine request. I should limit the number of times they are allowed to petition me in a week, I swear it."

"Be careful with that," Jenet advised, taking another bite of stuffed flatbread. "You can't afford to piss off the Merchants' Guild, yet. Starkhaven's still recovering from your cousin, and we can't handle that kind of economic crisis, while we're still dealing with public services problems."

"Why are we still having public services problems?" Sebastian asked, pouring himself a cup of coffee. " _Where_ are we still having public services problems?"

"There was a lot of damage to the drainage channels, especially after Goren disposed of the budget for nightsoil collectors. We used to have a city trade in that, and now we don't. Now it's all private collectors selling to whoever will buy, and currently, that's the Carta, most of the time -- which is the Merchants' Guild, to some greater or lesser extent," Jenet explained, with his mouth full.

"How do you know this?" Sebastian asked, cutting the corner off a honey-nut pastry. "How does he know this?"

Nathaniel swallowed, washing down the egg and noodle casserole with a swig of coffee. "He knows this because while you were stuck in Kirkwall, trying to be a holy man, he was here making a study of the political institutions of Starkhaven. He's published on the subject."

Sebastian looked at Jenet with newfound respect. Before knowing him, he'd been worried once that Jenet had merely been riding his father's coattails, but that had turned out to be an empty concern. 

"Very well. I will try not to antagonise the Merchants' Guild any more than necessary. But those drainage channels are a problem, with or without the Carta." His mind was almost too filled with politics to notice let alone enjoy the honey-nut pastry when he put it into his mouth. Sebastian rubbed his forehead where he felt the stirrings of a headache. "Tomorrow. I will take a look at our expenses and see what I can do." He stretched to pick up his coffee from the side table, frowning when he only found a few drops left. "Please tell me there's more of this?" He gestured with the mug at Nathaniel.

Nathaniel reached for the bell rope. "I'm sure there's more. You live here. I can't imagine anyone keeping your kitchens wouldn't know enough to stock it by now."

Jenet pushed his own cup across the desk. "Just in case you need some more, while we wait for another pot."

Nathaniel clung jealously to his own cup.

"Principally, though, things are looking up," Jenet offered, as Nathaniel requested another pot of coffee. "Much of the people's faith in their leadership has returned, although the word on the street is that you're a bit too holy for some people -- they're not sure the Chantry isn't using you as a proxy, but they're also a bit eccentric and tend toward grand theories of international intrigue. Commerce is still a little light, but putting more money into the streets, the guard, and repairing public property seems to be helping, there. Construction is booming, for obvious reasons, but that's going to come to an end once there's nothing left to repair, so you'll want to have a plan in place for the people coming out of that boom."

"The treaty with Kirkwall should also help with trade," Nathaniel pointed out, as he sat back down. "I can see what Lady Amell is trying to do, here, and it would result in Starkhaven becoming a major partner in the distribution of magical items priced for the merchant class. Middle-income people would be able to get potions for their health and bed-warmers that don't set anything on fire."

Sebastian nodded along, until Nathaniel's words caught up to him. "Magical items?" he said, brows knitting. "Ah. Because of the... changed circumstances of Kirkwall's Circle." He shook his head, taking solace in Jenet's coffee. "I am still surprised the Divine has permitted that so far."

"It seems to be working well in Kirkwall's favour," said Nathaniel. "The mages are protected and the templars still keep an eye on them, but they're allowed to live their lives and contribute to society. They run clinics to care for the injured and sick, and they have helped with the rebuilding of the city. All this, and the number of abominations has dropped sharply. If she's a smart woman -- and I know that she is -- the Divine should be watching this and taking note."

"Oh, I am sure she is watching the situation closely," Sebastian said. He eyed Nathaniel over his mug as he sat back, propping his feet up on his ottoman. "I know when you're angling for something, by now, Howe. Why are you bringing this up?"

"Read the letter," Nathaniel replied, "and then I'll show you the rest of the treaty."

"Aside from her, ah, _strong_ desire to better the trade in magics, the treaty's mostly the usual things you find in the Marches," Jenet offered with a casual shrug.

Sebastian eyed them both warily, before opening the letter. She loved him, she was looking forward to their marriage... he could feel a smile starting at the corners of his mouth.

_And if you truly desire to have me as your wife, in the City of Starkhaven, measures will need to be taken to ensure I am regarded as fully human, with the same rights and responsibilities of any other noblewoman. I will not move again to a place where I must be something other than I am, or risk lifelong imprisonment or worse._

Surely he could protect his own wife from the Chantry. But, what about their children? What if their heirs were mages like their mother? Maker, could he even raise a mage child? How did one raise a mage child? Isn't this what the Circles were for?

His eyes drifted shut and he sighed. "What's she really asking me for, Howe? It's never as easy as she makes it sound."

Nathaniel exchanged a look with Jenet and slid the treaty out of his jacket, handing it across to Sebastian. Sebastian noted the heft of the document, and in that moment he looked every bit as tired as he felt. 

"Page forty-eight," Nathaniel told him. "Firstly, she wants the Starkhaven Circle rebuilt."

Sebastian hummed as he thumbed through the pages. "That I know. Plans have already been drawn up."

"And she wants to elevate the mages of Starkhaven, not quite to the extent of those in Kirkwall, but enough to grant them citizenship, the right to correspondence, property, and commerce."

Lips pursed, Sebastian let out a heavy breath through his nose. His eyes scanned the page as Nathaniel spoke. "This is..." He shook his head. "To do this in Kirkwall is one thing, but with two cities in the Marches? There will be an Exalted March for sure."

"If Kirkwall were less of a success, I might agree with you," Nathaniel said. "I don't see why the Divine wouldn't grant you the same leeway, so long as everything goes well, and it will."

"To start with, we don't have any mages, locally, since the tower burned down," Jenet pointed out, "so, until such time as we have a tower again, it's largely just preventing the arrest of Kirkwall mages who visit. They've proven themselves generally well-behaved, my father says. Aside from that one who keeps getting drunk and trying to juggle ice spheres in the street in front of the tavern."

"And that would likely ease the people into the idea. Visiting mages whom no one is certain are mages, until they perform magic. A practical demonstration of the point." Nathaniel poured himself another cup of coffee. If they got toward the bottom of the pot, he'd call for yet another. "And, to some degree, at least, she's right. Imagine the backlash if you married a mage, and people found out. This way, you can bring the idea of mages as regular people into the public eye and then openly marry one. And people will see this for exactly what it is -- you protecting your wife. But, at the same time, the benefits of readily available magic will already be clear, so they're more likely to welcome her. Just... maybe hold off for a non-magical child before naming your heir. The Chantry would be absolutely correct in assassinating a mage sitting on the throne of Starkhaven. That's not even debatable."

"Magic is meant to serve man, not to rule over him," Jenet agreed, nodding.

Sebastian wiped a hand over his face. His brain kept getting caught on the idea of mage children. What if they had multiple mage children? Maker, what if they ended up with _all_ mage children?

But that was getting ahead of himself. He found he liked the idea of children, at least, particularly children with Bethany. Mage or not, he suspected she would know what to do. She always knew what to do.

"I understand what she's asking," Sebastian said. "I understand _why_ she's asking. But it is still quite the risk."

Despite his words, Nathaniel could tell that Sebastian was wavering. "Is she worth it?" he asked, certain of the answer. He knew what _his_ answer would be if this were Elissa.

Sebastian didn't hesitate. "Yes."

"Then that's settled."


	44. Chapter 44

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Theron says, he and Fenris have ... 'husbandly things' to do outside. ~~By which they totally mean Artemis.~~

Theron had borrowed a passenger cart from one of the drivers who made regular runs to Kirkwall, and gone to fetch a few people for the evening's festivities. The ladies had caught a ride with one of the Alienage drivers, but he didn't want to be left to his own devices in a room full of women who tended to look at him like meat. And not even the tasty kind. The experimental kind. The kind you throw at a tree to see if it sticks.

But, he'd brought Fenris and Artemis up, and of course, Orana, once she realised she'd have the night off, and three people had made the return much more difficult than he'd anticipated, but he'd still managed a decent pace, all the way to the top of the peak his village was on. Panting and dripping sweat, he laid down the handles of the cart and waved his passengers out of it.

"Coffee," he wheezed. "Coffee and a bottle of liquid warden."

Artemis climbed out, trying and failing to look more concerned than amused as he crouched next to a doubled-over Theron. "Are you all right? I told you you should have let me help." There was always the chance that he would have accidentally run over Theron instead of helping, but he liked to think his aim wasn't quite that bad. At least not any more.

Theron tried to puff up his chest while still bent over and wheezing. "I'm fine," he croaked before straightening and clearing his throat. He managed a more convincing, "I'm fine."

Fenris didn't bother to hide his amusement as he stepped over the cart's handles. "I believe the ladies are congregating at Kalli's new place. From what I hear, she has been dying to show it off."

"That's my house too!" Theron protested, barely holding onto enough of his breath to keep it from becoming a whine. "And it's pretty amazing."

Orana patted him gently on one shoulder. "Which one is it? We'll get you some coffee."

Fenris choked back a snicker as Theron gestured vaguely at one of the buildings.

"We're on the bottom. Top floors are for the kids. It's weird having rooms. Do you know how weird it is having rooms? There are walls between things. I can close a door and enjoy my wife as she so loves to be enjoyed, without waking up the kids." Theron managed a chuckle and stumbled off toward the house, Orana close at his side to make sure he didn't fall down.

"I wonder if he will even be able to join us," Fenris remarked, quietly, sliding an arm around Artemis's waist.

"Just let him catch his breath," Artie said, leaning into Fenris as they walked. "I'm sure we can 'inspire' a second wind." He grinned and pressed a kiss to Fenris's ear just to watch it twitch.

Kalli was in the middle of pouring drinks for their guests when her husband came stumbling in, red-faced and panting. She quirked an eyebrow at him but looked less than surprised. "I told you that cart was a ridiculous idea. You may act like an ass, but you can't haul loads like one." As she spoke, she poured some water for her ass of a husband and pressed the cup into his hand. "Try not to fall on that," she added, nudging him towards a chair in the corner. And that was another new thing for them, having this much furniture!

Varania stood to give Orana a hug. "Are you joining us? What a pleasant surprise!"

"Oh, well, with the Messeres coming out, it seemed silly to stay home alone." Orana patted Varania's back and waved to Merrill and Ella. "It's so good to see all of you, again!"

Theron guzzled the water and left the glass on the chair, stumbling out of the room in search of something.

"He's not a very indoor person, is he?" Ella observed, watching Theron rummage through a cupboard in the next room.

"You should've seen him in Denerim. He had all the manners of a horse." Kalli snorted and left the glass. Theron would find it later, with his ass.

"And for some reason, you married this." Varania shook her head and sighed.

"Oh, I know the exact reason I married this, and your brother could tell you all about it." Kalli grinned brightly.

"Wait, what? With _Fenris_?" Merrill cut in.

"No, not with Fenris," Fenris muttered. "Alongside Fenris."

All eyes landed on Artie, then, who cleared his throat awkwardly and studied the ceiling, his cheeks colouring. "More than the rest of the room needed to know, Kalli."

"Ooh, is that what Kalli means when she says you three are having a 'boys night'?" Merrill asked, leaning forward over the table, chin propped up in her hands. "Izzy would love this!"

"If it is, I don't want to know," Varania cut in, face twisting as though in pain. "There are things a woman does not need to think about her brother doing."

Ella looked wide-eyed between the ladies and the uncomfortable couple in the doorway.

"Success!" Theron called through the door, arriving bottle first with his liquid prize in his hand. "We have alcohol!"

"Thank the Maker," Artie muttered. Fenris smirked and squeezed his waist.

"Excuse us, ladies, we have husbandly things to do outside," Theron said with a saucy grin, completely unaware of the conversation he'd walked in on.

"Oh, is that what you're calling it now?" Varania teased. "Don't get too husbandly with my brother, or I'll have to hear all about it from them."

"Swording," Merrill translated. "She means we'll tell her all about her brother's swording, which I'm quite sure is better than yours."

"Creators, Merrill! It's been twenty years!" Theron turned an alarming shade of red and pressed a hand to his face. "Yes, as I was saying, _outside_. Things to do outside."

"Do be careful with Messere Artemis!" Orana called out, as he opened the door. "You know how he gets about the dirt!"

"Maker, they're worse than my brothers," Artemis said into Fenris's shoulder once they were outside. "They're worse than _Bethany_."

Fenris kissed the crown of his head. "At least they didn't invite Bethany, or we'd be done for."

Artemis straightened, looking horrified. "This is true."

"Never mind the ladies," Theron said, stepping to Artie's other side and slipping an arm around his waist as well. "I know some place quiet, just outside the village where we can do our husbandly things or our swording or our husbandly swording." He steered them in the proper direction as he spoke. His legs and arms still screamed at him, but his favourite shem propped him up quite nicely.

"If we get eaten by a Varterral, Theron," drawled Fenris, "then it will be entirely your fault."

"Not that place." Theron rolled his eyes. "Up a bit more. Caves full of ruins that don't have varterrals -- there's an enormous system back there, and it looks like this isn't the first time someone's built here -- really built, from the look of it. I'm guessing Tevinter ripped out everything they could carry and smashed a lot of what was left. But, the rooms are big and tiled, and there are convenient stumps of pillars." His hand slid down to squeeze Artemis's bottom firmly. "Do you remember the first time we enjoyed some ancient elven pillars?"

"Do you enjoy pillars, Amatus? Perhaps we should have some added to the house," Fenris purred, as Theron led them into the antechamber of ... something.

"Natia and I have been working up here. She's trying to make sense of what's left, so we can rebuild it like it used to be. I keep having to remind her that we're elves, not dwarves, so some things are going to look a little strange to her." Theron smiled weakly and looked away for a moment. "I wish Tamlen had lived to see it."

Artemis squeezed his arm. "He would have had a lot to say about it, I'm sure," he said. "And a lot to say about you bringing me here. I'm sure the words 'halla-fucker' would have factored in somewhere." Artie offered a tight smile, but Theron chuckled, his smile still small but less sad. 

"And I am a fan of pillars," Artemis said, throwing a look over his shoulder at his husband. "I wouldn't mind having some in the house so that a strong elf could ravish me against them."

"Only one strong elf?" Theron said with a smirk at Fenris. "Why not two?" He wrapped his arms around Artemis's hips and tossed the shem over his shoulder, laughing when he squeaked. And there his muscles went again, protesting their rough use, but he didn't have far to carry Artie.


	45. Chapter 45

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Husbandly swording' continues amid the ruins. (By which we mean it's 4,000 words of porn.)

The floor was surprisingly clean for ruins, but Theron had said he'd been working up there, the tiles of some grand mosaic uncovered under their feet, though parts had been chipped away, some with massive force, to judge by the fragments left behind. The face had been smashed out of another mosaic on the back wall of the chamber, between the two doors to the next room, and destroyed furniture was piled to one side of the room, for inventory and study.

Theron draped Artemis onto the floor, in the centre of the room, arms shaking from the effort not to drop the pretty shem, and then sprawled out beside him, pointing up. "You can see the sky. We found glass in the wreckage, and I think there used to be a window up there. I wonder what kinds of patterns it had."

"Something suitably elfy, I'm sure," Fenris drawled, sitting to Artemis's other side. Years later, these ancient elven things still didn't call to him, and he'd started to wonder if there was something wrong with him -- if maybe Danarius had broken some essential thing that had made him an elf.

"Ah! Something 'suitably elfy'!" Theron teased. "You are correct! Mystery solved!"

"I'd be much more interested in something unsuitably elfy," Artie replied, lying back and peering up through the 'window' above. The sky was blue and as clear as polished glass.

"Unsuitably elfy, hmm?" Theron said, turning onto his side to face the pretty shem. "Or an elf unsuitable for the public?"

"You just described yourself rather perfectly," Fenris said, the corner of his lips twitching up.

"If that's what Artemis is interested in, I can't say I mind," Theron shot back with a grin.

"You are incorrigible," Artie laughed, "but that does seem to be my type, yes." He winked up at Fenris and tugged at his arm, pulling him to lie down with them. "Now what nefarious plans do these unsuitable and incorrigible elves have for me?"

"Well, there's always the obvious," Fenris noted, shrugging one shoulder. "I could bend you over into his lap and tease you until you choke."

"You are wicked!" Theron's eyes sparkled as he ran a finger up the length of Artemis's leg. "And maybe after that, you'll be ready for us. What do you think, Shakes and Quakes, can you fit us both in that tight little hole?"

"Oh, I know he can." Fenris's smile was subtle, but smug. "The question is whether he wants to."

Artemis thought of the corset party, of taking Cormac and Fenris inside him at once, and he squirmed at the memory. He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. "Oh, he wants to. He wants to very much."

"Then I think he should stop wearing clothes and get on his knees," Theron suggested, unbuckling his own sweat-soaked vest.

Fenris opened his mouth to say something and then turned a lighter grey than usual. He swallowed, grimaced, and tried again. "I like this idea. I want to see you naked and begging for this, before I push you down and choke you with his knob." A rivulet of sweat ran down his spine, and he kept a cautious eye on Artemis's face. How far was too far? He was sure Artemis would tell him, before they got there.

Artemis shivered at those words, but he noticed the uncertainty in Fenris's eyes. He bit his lip and bent in to whisper in his ear. "Maker, I love the sound of your voice. Have I told you that recently?" 

Fenris's chuckle rumbled in Artemis's chest. "You may have mentioned it once or twice."

"Is that all? A travesty." Artemis grinned and gave the shell of Fenris's ear a teasing lick before sitting up, tugging his shirt off up over his head. 

Where skin appeared, Theron's hands followed. He nipped at Artemis's shoulder, hands following the slope of his back to dip into the waistband of Artie's trousers, squeezing that delectable ass with both hands. "You like that idea, don't you?" he purred as Artemis tugged at his laces. "Choking on my knob? I remember the first time you swallowed me down, like you couldn't get enough."

A shaky breath left Artie at that memory. How nervous he'd been, how desperate to please, and how addicted he'd been to the sounds Theron would make. He shimmied out of his trousers, barely sparing enough time to hurriedly fold them before tossing them aside.

"Always so eager," Fenris agreed, rising to his feet, before he began to strip, his crotch about at the height of Artemis's face, but just out of reach. He lifted one foot, sliding it between Artemis's thighs, prodding behind his beloved husband's balls with his bare toes. "I remember the first time you begged me to fuck your face." And, really, he wished he didn't remember that. He'd had a nervous collapse at the thought. "That Orlesian coat was terrible, anyway."

"Wait, what?" Theron peered curiously over Artie's shoulder, hands roughly pinching the pretty shem's nipples. "What were you doing wearing Orlesian coats?"

"We weren't. But, we certainly ruined one anyway." Fenris smiled beatifically, and began to unlace his trousers, sliding his hand in to stroke himself to attention, before he unlaced them enough to remove them. He let his trousers hang low on his hips, knob jutting over the top, as he stepped closer, putting himself right between Artemis's legs. He could do this. "Kiss me," he said, looking down at his husband's face. "Beg for what you want and kiss me until I believe you."

Artemis whimpered -- actually _whimpered_ \-- at those words from his husband. He looked up at Fenris as though he were the most gorgeous thing in existence and ran a hand up his thigh, his other hand wrapping around Fenris's knob and sliding along the soft skin he found there. He licked his lips, eyes still on Fenris's face. 

"Please," he said, letting all his desperation colour the word. He ran his lips up the length of Fenris's knob. "Please fuck me, Fenris. I want you both to use me until I choke, until I forget how to breathe without one of you in me." His ears burned red at his own words, but he meant them. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the tip of Fenris's knob, flicking his tongue against it, eyes on Fenris all the while.

"Creators," Theron breathed, hands sliding firmly over Artemis's skin, tensed not to grab. "You're desperate for it, aren't you, shem? Desperate to be pounded full of fine elven meat. Lucky for you, we've got that in abundance."

Fenris struggled to stay standing under the onslaught. How had he thought this was a good idea? He was supposed to be able to withstand this and then more, and still be ready to share with Theron. "Turn around and offer your mouth to Theron," Fenris commanded, voice thick and raw, "and lift your hips for me. Spread your legs so I can watch you twitch with every promise we make you."

Artemis hummed around Fenris's knob, giving the tip one last firm lick before pulling away. He obeyed, already aching just from their words, and turned to grin at Theron, giving Fenris a great view of his ass and the long, graceful line of his spine as he bent over Theron's lap.

"Do you want me like this?" Artie asked Theron, plucking at the laces of his trousers as Theron pushed them down his hips. "My mouth around you?"

"Like you need to ask that. Fuck yes. Let's see how much elf you can take, shem."

Fenris suppressed a dry laugh. He'd seen first-hand how much _human_ Artemis could take and knew Theron didn't quite compare. Still, Artemis was a lovely sight as he drew Theron into his mouth, hands clutching at Theron's thighs to keep from reaching down to touch himself.

"Oh, _Artemis_ ," Theron moaned, head tipping back at the first touch of tongue. He took a few deep breaths to centre himself, before he started to bring forth reams of filthy fantasy. "You should be in a show at that brothel in Kirkwall. Face forward on a table, so everyone could watch your face, while a dozen elves use you from behind. Right up there in front of everyone. Let them all see how the pretty shemlen loves it. Maybe we should put a ring around you, so you can't finish until we're good and done. Until your big, strong husband takes it off you. Let your knob get purple and hang heavy between your thighs before we let you out of it. And then Fenris can have you when the rest of us are through. Shoving you full of meat one last time, while our spend drips down your thighs. Let him pound it out of you while you whimper and plead, and then carry you out once you can't come any more."

Fenris shuddered at the thought -- a bit too close to some other things in his past -- but he shoved past that and buried his face between Artemis's ass cheeks, teasing the edges of Artemis's tight hole with his tongue. He could remember the first time he'd done this, too, and that was a far more pleasant memory. The way Artemis's body had looked in that corset quickened his breath even now. But, he could leave the talking to Theron and put his tongue to better uses.

Artemis groaned around the knob in his mouth, hips tilting up to encourage Fenris's tongue. He thought of the same night Fenris did, drunken snatches of memory of Fenris behind him, Cormac's eyes boring into him. That memory blended with Theron's descriptions and with the memory of his bachelor party, passed around and fucked full until Fenris carried him away.

Theron ran his fingers through Artemis's hair, brushing a wayward lock out of his face before curling his hand into a fist at the back of his head. "I can't hear the pretty sounds you make when you're like this, but I can feel them. Do you like how his tongue feels, shem?"

Artemis groaned again, and Theron held his head still as he rocked up in a shallow thrust, his own breathing growing heavy and ragged.

"I think that's a yes, Fenris."

Fenris hummed in amusement, pressing the tip of his thumb into Artemis, as he continued to lick, pressing his tongue into the stretched hole as he forced it open. There wasn't much space, but there was definitely enough to work the tip of his tongue into. He meant to get Artemis as loose as possible, before they tried this -- not that he thought there was much chance of the two of them doing damage, considering Anders, but he always felt better about doing things right, doing things carefully.

"You know what I think?" Theron asked, chin tipping up as he tried to keep control of himself. "I think Jethann should be here. Could you handle three of us? Two behind and one here, in your mouth? It's a pity I can't afford him, or I'd bring him to your nameday celebration, next year. We could paint you in elven spend, inside and out."

That sounded terribly messy, but still Artemis purred his enjoyment of that image. That was the sort of mess he tended not to mind until the morning, and he remembered how that had felt, two knobs in his ass and a third down his throat. Artie wondered if he could come just from this, from Fenris's tongue and Theron's words.

Magic sparked to Artie's fingers, making Theron's hips jump and his breathing stutter. Theron loosened his grip in Artie's hair in apology.

"I know you like being choked," he gasped, "but careful with that!"

Artie's sides shook with silent laughter, but the next time Theron anticipated the spark. Muscles tightening, he kept his thrusts shallow, his breathing ragged.

"Keep that up, and I'm going to be finished before I'm done with you," Theron warned, and Artie relented, the corners of his lips turning up in a smug smile, at least until the press of Fenris's thumb and tongue had his breath shivering out of him.

Fenris stretched out a leg, catching Theron's discarded vest in his toes. He picked through the pockets, one handed, until he found the bottle he was expecting -- the oil, not the booze. He knew Theron wouldn't have had to duck out of the room to get booze, but picking up the oil in front of everyone would've led to ... exactly the conversation they'd ended up in the middle of anyway.

He nipped at the muscled curve of Artemis's bottom as he spilled grease across one of his hands, rubbing it along his fingers before he shoved two easily into Artemis, feeling the sudden clench around his knuckles as he pushed all the way in. He could bring Artemis off like this. It wouldn't be difficult. What would be substantially more difficult was getting four fingers in without bringing Artemis off.

Theron watched Fenris work, occasionally pinching himself to keep from getting too close to the edge. "You think you have enough fingers for this, Fenris? Or do you think you'll end up in to the wrist?"

Fenris tried not to laugh too much at that. "My fingers are not that small," he said with a pointed look down at Theron's lap. At Theron's offended look, he chuckled and shook his head. "You should see some of the 'shem' he's taken with less preparation. Ask Kalli about Anders." He continued working Artemis open as he spoke, feeling Artemis twitch and clench around him, hips still up at an inviting angle.

With Artie's mouth scrambling his thoughts, it took Theron a long moment to put Fenris's words together. "That hairy tree of a shem? Elgar'nan, she's told me enough to keep me awake at night and not entirely in the fun way."

Artemis pulled off of Theron long enough to catch his breath, eyes lidded in pleasure as Fenris's fingers continued caressing his insides. "And she does not exaggerate," he said, grinning at the horrified and impressed look on Theron's face before flicking his tongue against the tip of Theron's knob. Over his shoulder, he added, "You don't need to be so careful, Fenris. I'll be fine."

"Maybe I want to be careful," Fenris replied, with a mischievous smile. "Didn't I say I would tease you until you begged? You don't sound desperate, yet."

"He's right," Theron added, with a nod. "More demanding than desperate. What happened to that sweet little whimper you used to give me when I'd whisper in your ear?"

"Perhaps it's because your mouth is nowhere near his ear." Fenris squinted. "And I don't think you're that flexible." He slipped in a third finger and twisted his wrist, little quarter turns, back and forth, easing his fingers in.

Artemis's eyelids fluttered shut at the stretch of Fenris's fingers. "You know, it's a bit hard to beg when there's a knob in my mouth," he pointed out. "But if you want me to beg instead of sucking you off, I'll beg for it." He looked up at Theron with an impish grin. 

"Oh, I can wait." Theron grinned back just as impishly. "I can wait all day, if it means I get to hear you whimper and plead to get filled up and fucked out. And after all the waiting, I'll make sure you'll be spending tomorrow lying down."

"I seem to recall you already shouldn't be standing," Fenris teased, eyes lighting on Theron, before returning to the tempting spectacle of his hands and Artemis's ass.

"Who said anything about me standing now or later? I'll get up when I feel like getting up, and not a moment sooner." Theron laughed and ran a hand through Artemis's hair. "Come on, beautiful. Tell us what you want. Tell us how bad you want it. Tell us how good it's going to be when we give it to you."

"I want you to stop teasing me," Artie huffed but without really meaning it. Fenris's fingers twisted inside him, and Artemis choked off an aching groan. "I want you both inside me. I want you both stretching me open and pinning me between you until there's no space for breath, until the only words I know are the ones you pour in my ear. Please, please. I want -- I need -- to feel you both fucking me until I can't walk. Please, Theron, Fenris, just take me."

Theron hummed, running his fingers along the shell of that small round ear. "What do you think, Fenris? Does that sound desperate enough?"

Fenris didn't think he could handle what desperate actually sounded like. "I love to hear you want me, Amatus," he said, running his clean hand down Artemis's lower back. Just that little reminder that everything was all right. "But, I love to hear you take me even more." He smiled wickedly at Theron and tipped his chin up.

Theron took the hint, leaning back. "Come up over me, shemlen. You'll have me, first, and once you're used to it, he'll join us. Should've done this for your wedding."

"Do you remember the last time we did this?" Fenris purred, slowly sliding his fingers out. "The way your fingers sparked with every thrust? The way we fit so tight inside you, rutting together in that crushing grip you had on us?" That last was something he didn't want to think too long about, but he knew Artie wanted to hear it.

"You've really done this before? You're not just yanking my ear?" Theron asked, eyebrow arcing up. "I mean, I knew some shem back in the city, but... you two?"

"We might have had a little extra bit of fun at a party, once," Artie said, climbing over Theron to straddle his hips, aching at the loss of Fenris's fingers. Theron held his hips, thumbs stroking over skin, as Artemis reached between them for Theron's knob.

"Oh? Found another elf to play with you?" Theron purred. "That must have been quite a sight."

Artie was content in letting him keep that mental image, but Fenris corrected, "Not an elf." Fenris watched as Artemis sank slowly down onto Theron's knob, head falling back and lips parting in a sigh. With an impish smile, Fenris added, "A dwarf."

Theron guffawed, and Artemis choked on his protest, twisting to shoot a scowl at Fenris over his shoulder. "He's not a dwarf!"

"A tall dwarf," Fenris amended. 

Theron chuckled breathlessly, dazed at the tight heat of Artemis around him and by those mental images.

"He has a beard," Artemis clarified, cheeks burning red. "Had a beard. That does not make him a dwarf."

"Getting a taste for shem, as you age?" Theron breathed, tongue thick in his mouth. "Should I be concerned?"

"I think, perhaps, we just need to make a better case for the obvious superiority of elves," Fenris teased, slicking his fingers again.

"That shouldn't be difficult, but I bet it'll be hard," Theron joked, clutching at Artemis's hips as he bucked up, driving himself the rest of the way in.

He knocked a sharp sound out of Artemis, Artie's eyes rolling back. "Incorrigible," Artemis said again with a dazed smile. He swivelled his hips, feeling the familiar weight and shape of Theron inside him.

Fenris watched Theron's legs tense, watched that elven-proportioned knob slide in and out of his husband's unmistakeable ass, with every motion of Theron's hips. He supposed he could be envious -- but he was soon to join them for something even better. He could have been jealous, but somehow Theron only made Artemis look more divine. He moved a bit to the side to get a better view, to watch the way the skin shifted over the muscle in Artemis's arms. Every inch of this mage's body was a gift to him, every day, and to be able to watch these reactions from any angle he desired gave him that much more of an appreciation for what he had.

"You want it harder?" Theron asked, grinning vividly as his hands slid down Artemis's thighs. "You want me to pound you open until you get stuck like that?"

"Please do not break my husband," Fenris requested mildly, reaching out to caress Artemis's lower back, with his clean hand. "I wish to spend many more long years enjoying him."

Artemis laughed breathlessly, rocking back into each of Theron's thrusts. Soft sounds of pleasure caught in his throat. "Maybe I want you both to break me," he said, aiming a sly smile at his husband. "That's what healing potions are for, right?" Even after all this time, he almost said 'That's what Anders is for'. But, then, Anders had given them those potions, so he supposed that still counted.

"Always so desperate for it," Theron said, snapping his hips up into Artemis and revelling in the anguished groans that got him. "You'd think we never satisfy you, the way you carry on."

Fenris traced a glowing finger down Artie's back and watched him shudder. "I don't think Kirkwall would have quite so many earthquakes, if that were true."

"Please," Artie gasped, bracing himself against Theron's chest as Theron rutted up into him. "Please. Fen."

Fenris traced a slick finger down the crack of Artemis's ass, brushing against Theron's knob. Theron slowed, grinding more than thrusting, as he waited.

"Relax," Theron said, kneading Artemis's thighs, and trying to take his own advice.

"Please don't let me hurt you," Fenris breathed against Artemis's shoulder, pressing the back of one finger against Theron's knob as he gently eased the tip into Artemis's body. He remembered when they'd done this before, being eye-height with Anders's crotch and watching that scar crawl with every twitch of muscle. He remembered his disgust at touching Cormac and how it had dissipated, once they were both buried deep inside Artemis's body.

"Te amo," he whispered against Artemis's skin, teasing that tight hole wider around Theron's knob.

Artemis held onto Theron's shoulders, trying to keep his grip loose so that his nails didn't bite into the skin. He'd been drunk the last time they'd tried this, and now he was all too aware of the pressure, the aching stretch that stayed just this side of too sharp as Fenris's fingers, his lovely, lovely fingers, worked him open as carefully and gently as before. Artie wanted to say he loved him too, but he was having a hard enough time remembering how to breathe.

"Breathe, beautiful," Theron reminded him, and Artie exhaled raggedly. More advice Theron needed to follow himself. Fenris's fingers felt incredible twisting against him, and it took all of Theron's self-control not to move too much. 

"Amatus?" Fenris's free hand smoothed down Artemis's back as he waited for a response.

"It's good," Artemis assured him once he'd found his tongue. "More. Please."

"As much as you want," Fenris promised, testing the edge of the hole. When he slipped in a final finger, it was Theron who gasped.

Theron's head tipped back, baring his throat as he panted and whined. It was tight enough he wondered how Artemis could manage to take it, never mind breathe at the same time. He wondered, for a split second, what it would've been like if he'd run away with Artie, all those years ago, and his chest ached more than his knob, but he let it pass. He had what he had, and there was no arguing the benefit.

And then Fenris was pushing himself in, sliding his fingers out of the way of his knob, and every thought went out of Theron's head with the pressure. He found himself reduced to choked sounds and half-voiced whimpers as his fingers dug into Artemis's thighs. He wasn't going to come, he was going to _die_ , he was sure of it. How was this going to work?

Fenris rested his forehead against Artie's shoulder, his vision sparking as he pressed into that impossibly tight space. He could feel the muscles of Artemis's back shivering, and he wondered for a moment if that healing potion would end up being necessary after all. But then he eased deeper, and the tightness didn't seem so dizzying.

"Amatus," Fenris breathed against Artemis's skin, and Artemis whimpered in response, hand tight on Theron's shoulders. Fenris feathered kisses along Artie's shoulder-blade, hips moving in shallow circles as the three of them adjusted to occupying the same space.

"Creators," Theron choked, staring up at the skylight and praying for strength.


	46. Chapter 46

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The 'husbandly swording' gains some voyeurs.

Back down the hill, the table was heaped with half-eaten cakes and empty bottles of wine, and the laughter of the women could be heard outside the house. Merrill's voice was the loudest, most of the time.

"No, but we should!" she declared, in a loud whisper, gesturing roughly in the direction of the hill with a half-empty glass of wine. "There's three of them and at least two of them are good looking!"

"I've watched their 'husbandly doings' before," Kalli said, nodding. "They can get pretty ... inspiring."

"One of them is still my brother," Varania argued, pouring herself another glass of wine. "You'll need to find another bottle of wine before I'm getting near that."

"All of them are men," Orana volunteered with a shrug, snatching up someone else's half a lemon cake. "I've got a better view from right here."

"Two out of three of them aren't your brother," Merrill pointed out to Varania, with a wine-induced sincerity. "And two out of three aren't Theron."

"Theron's got his charms, but he's not Paivel." Varania offered a starry-eyed smile.

"Thank the Andraste and Creators for that," Kalli muttered, finishing the drink she held.

"Paivel!? Eeeeeew, he's almost my dad!" Merrill complained. "I mean, I'm adopted. I'm not actually related to anyone here, but... Paivel?"

"You'd be surprised." Varania raised her eyebrows and looked terribly smug.

"Maybe it's just because I'm from the Circle, but... do any of them know we'd be watching?" Ella asked, with a mouthful of strawberry cream.

"I doubt they'd notice us," Kalli said. "They tend to get... pretty into the proceedings." She grinned into her wine glass. "They also haven't minded an audience before. I'm sure I'm not the only one who's noticed. Right, Orana?"

"Oh my," Ella said in a squeaky voice.

Varania made a face and reached for more wine.

"I decline to comment," Orana said with a smirk that said plenty.

Merrill giggled and nibbled at a corner of her lemon cake. "Who knew Fenris would turn out to be so adventurous! I grew up with Theron, Mythal preserve me, and Bethany has told me all sorts of scandalous rumours about her brothers, but Fenris! He always seemed so uptight when I first knew him."

"Maybe it was just those tight pants," Kalli said, wiggling her eyebrows.

"That is still my brother," Varania said. "That fact has not changed since two minutes ago, when I last pointed it out. I do not need to think about any of this. There's not enough wine in the world for that."

"Spoilsport!" Merrill huffed, sliding more wine her way anyway, just in case. "A little peek wouldn't hurt!"

"Don't worry, Varania, if they go up, I'll stay and keep you company," Ella assured her, not quite comfortable with the idea of watching without permission.

"A little peek could ruin my appetite for a week," Varania argued. "But, I suppose you're welcome to help yourself to the visual buffet of naked man ass, as long as you don't talk about my brother's when you get back."

* * *

  
In the ruins, the lyrium lines on Fenris's ass reflected the light from above in ways that seemed to make it glow, as he ground in harder, trying to force himself deeper than it was possible for him to get into Artemis. He panted, pressed close against Artemis's back, hips bucking and rolling in response to how Theron moved beneath them.

Theron thrust tensely upward, in short jerks, never enough motion that he'd have to squeeze himself back in, but enough to feel the pressure shift as Artie wrung his knob against Fenris's. "Good?" he asked, catching his breath between clenches of that incredible ass.

Artemis nodded, sweat beading at his temples and pleasure pooling at the base of his spine. He was beyond words but not beyond sound, his choked off groans and shivery breaths bouncing off stone and filling the room alongside Fenris's grunts and the wet slide of skin against skin.

"Tell me how it feels, shem," Theron said, eyes on Artemis's face and watching it twist in pleasure.

"I..." Perhaps Artemis could manage words if he tried them one at a time. "...feel..." He focused on Theron's eyes, on Fenris's heartbeat against his back. "I feel stretched full, like this is the 'more' I keep asking for, and I... so good, Theron... Fenris." He broke off into a liquid moan as Theron thrust upward, rocking them both and interrupting the rhythm for a moment.

"I like that sound," Fenris growled against Artemis's shoulder as they fell back into sync. One hand skimmed down Artie's stomach to cup his knob, feeling the weight of it as Artie shivered. "Can you make it again?"

"Fen," Artie pleaded.

"Make the ground shake for us, Earthquake Boy," Theron panted, reaching up so his hand could join Fenris's, circling the tip of Artemis's knob with just one finger. The intensity had him right on the edge, but the pressure was just enough he wouldn't go over -- couldn't go over -- making every moment a delightful torture that half of him wished would stop and the other half hoped went on forever.

Fenris felt the sweat break across his shoulders as Theron's pulse caught him just right, laid straight down a line of lyrium, where the skin pulled tight, and he breathed a small, ragged sound against Artemis's neck. His fingers gently toyed with Artemis's shaft, never quite enough to be anything but distracting. "Yes, make a dreadful mess of Theron," he purred.

"It's not going to be a mess if I catch it in my hand." The words were mangled by the obvious strain in Theron's voice. "And then the pretty shemlen can lick my fingers."

Artemis shivered, another desperate sound caught in his throat. He was completely at their mercy, filled, surrounded, and overwhelmed, and this time when he felt his magic pull taut under his skin, Artemis let it go where it wanted to, spilling out of him along with his release. 

Fenris purred when he felt the ground tremble, shaking dust from the cave's ceiling. He wondered if Artemis was even aware of the sounds he was making and the lovely way they echoed off stone.

Theron's lips formed soundless words in Elvish as Artemis clenched around them, the pressure nearly unbearable, the stars sparking in front of his eyes blocking out the sky.

A few more shallow thrusts that involved less motion than intent and Fenris followed them down, a dull flicker chasing the lyrium along one of his sides. As his vision swam back into focus, for a moment, he thought he'd gone blind, before he realised he'd pressed his brow to Artemis's shoulder, blocking his eyes. The last few weak throbs of his knob echoed in the rushing sound in his ears, sudden thick waves of ringing. He made a garbled, inquisitive sound, without raising his head.

"Mmm," Theron responded, staring dazedly up at the skylight, still trying to remember where he'd left any part of his body that wasn't his knob, which ached from the pressure now. When he found his hand, he held it up for Artemis, a thick pool in his palm.

Artemis tried to catch his breath, feeling aches in places he didn't know existed, but when Theron offered up his hand, he bent to lick it without question. He didn't taste as good as Fenris with the sweetness of lyrium, but he enjoyed the pleased hum Theron made as he licked his fingers clean.

Fenris pressed lazy kisses to the bend of Artemis's neck as he slowly slid free, still trying to find his lungs and his memories of how to use them. He didn't so much lie down as flop, one hand reaching out for his husband to join him.

A few seconds later, Theron whined pitiably as gravity caught up with him. He shot a dirty look at Fenris. "I didn't need the extra sauce on my eggs, but thanks."

Fenris chuffed, nearly silent in his amusement. "I'm sure you're better for it anyway. I've heard it's good for the skin."

"What I'm better for is this gorgeous shemlen in my lap," Theron argued, running a hand up Artemis's thigh. "Mindblowing. Every time."

"I know," Fenris purred, smugly. "And I married him."

"Without him I'd never have met my beautiful wife, and because he's utterly insatiable, I still get a bit." Theron grinned lazily up at Artemis. "You're like the perfect dessert for my marriage."

In the shadows, Kalli just managed to hold back an amused snort. 

"That's not fair," Merrill whispered, talking behind her hand. "You should get dessert too." She nudged Kalli with her elbow, and Kalli nudged her back.

"Oh, I get to cut myself a slice now and then," Kalli said, eyeing Fenris's prone form and the way the skylight highlighted the tattoos across his stomach.

Artemis chuckled, oblivious to the whispering ladies behind them. "Like you were the appetizer for mine?" he teased. He kissed Theron's cheek as he slid off, sprawling on the ground next to his husband. "And don't worry. I'll clean you up later."

Fenris hummed, wrapping an arm around Artemis and pulling him close. There was dust in his human's hair from the ceiling, but Artemis didn't seem to notice.

Beside them, Theron made a strangled noise as he realised he hadn't shoved his trousers down far enough to miss the slowly-spreading pool of goo dripping down between his legs. Grabbing the top of his trousers, he rolled to his feet, still whining as he staggered toward the back of the room for the rags he was sure he'd left to clean the mosaics with. "This is your fault, Fenris. This is your fault and it'll be your fault when I sing songs about it at the Arlathvhen."

"But, then you'll have to admit you didn't take your trousers off. And that you were sleeping with a shem. Don't you lose elf points for that?" Fenris teased, cuddling Artemis. "I have an excuse. I'm barely an elf to begin with."

Merrill watched Theron clean himself off and then elbowed Kalli and held up her pinky. "I was hoping that'd get better as he got older."

"And that's why you date shem," Kalli replied, with a smug smile. "You're really missing out. Do you know what he was doing when I found him, in Denerim? He was a prostitute -- didn't even know he was, either."

"He was what!?" Merrill squealed, voice echoing through the room.

Fenris jumped at the sound, rolling to shield Artemis and reaching for a sword that wasn't there. "Who's there?" he barked, lyrium brands lighting in uneven patches.

Merrill clapped both hands over her mouth while Kalli covered her eyes with just one.

"The wife of the idiot who soiled his trousers," Kalli said, stepping into the light. "I felt the earthquake and wanted to make sure the place hadn't collapsed on you."

"Oh, is that why?" Theron asked, making no move to cover himself. He was more intent on trying to desoil his trousers, an endeavour that was looking hopeless. "And was that you talking to yourself? I didn't know you did such a good Merrill impersonation."

Merrill squeaked behind her hands.

"Oh, Maker," Artie groaned, cheeks and ears burning as he tried to hide as much of himself as he could behind Fenris. "Please don't tell me _all_ the ladies are here."

Fenris paled, pulling his trousers back up over his hips and dragging Artie's pants over to them with his toes. 

"Your sister wouldn't join us, Fenris," Merrill assured him. "Theron just wasn't good-looking enough to make up for you, I suppose. Which, no. I mean, I'd rather look at you than Theron. But, she wouldn't. Because she's your sister."

"Hey, hey, I am a fine slab of man!" Theron protested.

"You're more like a cute sliver of man," Merrill shot back.

"He's an elf!" Kalli argued. "What do you expect!"

Merrill pointed to Fenris and raised an eyebrow, pointedly.

"The elfiest thing about him is the pointy ears!" Theron huffed, tucking himself into his somewhat cleaner trousers. "And I don't remember you being anything to write home about, either."

"You already were home, Theron. That was in your aravel." Merrill rolled her eyes.

Through all the bickering, Artie was able to pull on his pants, though on the floor, it was less of a 'pull' and more of a 'shimmy into'. His pants were thankfully clean at least.

He cleared his throat. "Uh. So. Don't you ladies have guests? The earthquakes did not kill us, as you can see. Though depending on how long you were standing there, my mortification might kill me either way."

"Oh, don't worry, Artie, you're very lovely to look at too!" Merrill assured him. "You and your brother have the same legs."

"Oh, Maker," Artie groaned, glad those legs were covered now.

"But how did you manage to...?" Merrill tilted her head and squinted at him. "Was it magic? I can't imagine force magic would be too helpful there, but maybe you know more creative applications than I do."

"Please stop talking," Artie said behind his hands.

"Perhaps Theron could teach you those secrets," Fenris suggested, a smile teasing at the corners of his mouth.

"I could probably even tell you where he learned them," Kalli drawled, draping an arm around Merrill's shoulders and putting her hand on the closer one.

"Oh! Yes, I can see where being so small would be an advantage, in that case." Merrill nodded as Kalli turned her around and led her toward the exit.

"Excuse us, boys. We have to go make sure Orana isn't teaching Ella to do unspeakable things in my kitchen," Kalli called back to them.

"I am not that small!" Theron shouted after them, after a moment of sputtering.


	47. Chapter 47

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samson does not like Ferelden. Alain minds it less.

Samson hated Ferelden. It was always wet, muddy, and smelled like dog, and he didn't quite understand how a mage, newly freed, able to go anywhere in Thedas (with varying degrees of risk), would choose to flee to Ferelden.

Family, Alain had pointed out the first time Samson had bitched about it. It always came down to family and the mage's idea of 'home'. A curious observation from someone who had chosen to stay in Kirkwall -- or at least to keep associating with Kirkwall. But then, Alain never mentioned any family. Either he didn't want to, or he just didn't have any. Samson wasn't about to ask.

"Hey. It's glowing brighter again." Alain held up the phylactery tied to his belt, and Samson blinked, pulling himself out of his thoughts. "Looks like we're going in the right direction again."

The blood inside the vial seemed to pulse with an inner light. They were getting close.

"What's on this road? It smells wetter than usual," Samson grumbled, unfolding the map to figure out where they were. He thought he remembered seeing a lake over here, somewhere. "Lake... something." He held the map closer to his face and then shoved it toward Alain. "You're younger than me, I bet you can read it. What's that second word? The long one that's all squished up."

"Calenhad. Lake Calenhad." Alain paused. "I wonder if it's named after that king who hunted dragons."

"Was he Fereldan? I bet he had a dog, if he was. I bet his wet dog stank, the dead dragons stank, and this king stank with the reek of all Ferelden." Samson wished it wasn't so wet. Or so cold. Or so ... Fereldan, really. "And what's this asshole doing in a lake, anyway? Fishing?"

"Probably living on the islands or something." Alain squinted at the map, again, before pulling out a lens from one of his pouches. "That's... that's a Circle symbol. You don't think...?"

"Nah, why would one of ours be in a Fereldan circle. That's ridiculous. Leave us just to go to a cold, muddy, dog-stinking Circle?" Samson shook his head. "Must be the islands or a dock town or something. Or maybe it's past the lake."

Alain frowned. Wherever he was, that was much too close to an unsympathetic Circle for an escaped mage to be living, assuming he had any sense of self-preservation. Still, he kept his thoughts to himself and tucked away the map again, hoping Samson was right.

Samson thought it was just his ageing eyesight at first, the way shapes blurred in the distance, but then he tasted the change in the air and realised it was fog. The brighter the phylactery glowed, the denser the fog around them grew, the kind of fog that settled damp and heavy in Samson's lungs. He coughed and spat, but it didn't seem to make a difference.

"That looks like the lake," Alain pointed out, and Samson wondered how he could tell through the fog. Then he caught the glow of a lantern up ahead, bobbing on the bow of a rowboat. Samson suspected he would have walked right into the lake without Alain and that light letting him know it was there.

"It looks like there's something a couple miles down, if we follow the shore. Maybe we can hire a boat," Alain suggested, cutting into Samson's musings.

"Or maybe we can walk into drunken and unsympathetic templars," Samson muttered. "Or a kraken. Or some Fereldan dog-monster of the marsh."

"Well, it's a good thing you're travelling with a mage, Ser Samson." Alain clapped him on the back hard enough to shake loose another cough. "Don't worry, I'll protect you!"

"I'm pretty sure that's supposed to go the other way around," Samson grumbled, trying to ignore the sweat creeping through his eyebrows and dripping from his nose. Was it even really sweat? It didn't seem warm enough for that. That was something about Kirkwall -- only the docks were low enough to fog. He wiped his face on his sleeve, but a moment later, it was just as damp as it had been.

"Here, walk on the other side of me," Alain said, taking a step toward the lake. "Just don't pass me, and we should be fine. Well, we should be not in a lake. You're not looking well."

"I'm an old man," Samson snapped, knowing that wasn't really true. Older than Cullen, certainly, but still younger than Meredith had been. He was in fighting shape, but his bones ached and the lyrium whispered inside his skull.

Samson hated the way Alain was looking at him, like he could see through the words to what they were hiding. "Old, huh? Well, then, you're looking good for your age. Do we need to find you a walking stick?"

Samson glared at Alain. He knew by now he was being teased, but the earnest way Alain said it almost made it hard to tell. "My walking's not a problem," he groused, the end of this statement catching in a cough. "It's this damn Fereldan air. And this damn Fereldan country. Why couldn't this mage have gone to Antiva? An Antivan beach, that's what would clear my head."

Warmth and sun sounded amazing. For now, however, he would take warmth and a glowing fire, if he could find it.

Alain patted Samson's shoulder. "The sooner we find this one, the sooner we can leave Ferelden."

"Thank the Maker for that."

The distant, fog-hidden shapes took the form of a tiny village as they approached.

"I think there's a tavern there." Alain pointed to the only sign visible. "A drink, some hot food, and if we're lucky, we can rest a while."

"The Spoiled Princess, huh?" Samson read the sign. "Likely too much to ask for a brothel this far out from anywhere decent." He pulled the door open and flung it back, to give Alain room to enter behind him.

The few people in the room looked up as they entered, Alain fumbling with the door, behind them, as Samson looked around the room. No one looked out of place, but that didn't mean much. Some of the mages they'd found had blended in pretty well, where they'd ended up.

"Can I get you two a drink? A room, perhaps?" the innkeeper offered.

"Both," Samson decided. "And whatever today's supper looks like." He picked a table near the back of the room, where he could see the door and the hallway into the back without twisting around and drawing attention to himself.

Alain joined him, after a moment spent untangling himself from the rack of coats and staves by the door.

"What brings you two to town?" the innkeeper asked, setting a pair of pints on the table. "Haven't seen you around before, and we don't get much traffic."

"Fishing," Alain said, taking a long swallow of the pint. "We've been up in Ansburg, and we heard the fishing on Lake Calenhad was excellent."

"Somebody's been pulling your leg, boy." The innkeeper laughed at the thought. "There's mages on that lake, and the magic makes the fish all weird. They're all right for eating, I guess. No more mages around the lake than anywhere else in Ferelden, but they ain't quite right."

Alain pretended to look disappointed, shoulders slumping. "Magically weird fish, huh? But eating them isn't going to make me grow fins or breathe fire?"

The innkeeper guffawed, ample belly moving with the sound. "Well, Herman's been eating 'em all his life, and the only weirdness he has he's had from birth." He pointed with his thumb at a spindly old man close to the door. "If he can breathe fire, he's kept it well to himself."

Samson chuffed, already well into his drink. It was watery stuff, but it sat warm in his belly. "I'll be letting him taste them before I try any," he said, tipping his head at Alain. "I don't suppose you know where we could rent a boat? Magic fish might pose an interesting challenge."

The innkeeper hummed, lower lip jutting out as he thought. "Well, Kester runs the ferry, but he's pretty strict about sticking to a particular route. You could ask ol' Herman about his boat, but I've never known him to let anyone else use it."

"Well, after supper we'll put around a few coins and see what we can do about the morning, then! Bright and early!" Alain smiled broadly like waking up at the crack of dawn to chase magically tainted fish was his idea of a good time.

Samson looked like he was unsure whether to vomit or punch Alain in the teeth. Instead, he asked for another beer. Something about it seemed to quiet the whispers, and a night's sleep in an actual bed without the dreams of drowning in a glowing blue sea sounded like it'd be worth the potential hangover. Even if he did need to be awake before the Maker's asscrack.

Alain's hands were under the table, and his eyes on them. He looked up and shook his head, as the innkeeper went to get their supper and to bring another drink for Samson. "We're close. It's just still telling me to look at the lake. Unless there's some hermitage out there, it's pointing toward the tower."

Samson pressed his thumb into the hollow of his eye. "How lovely would that be?" he muttered. "Come all this way, and someone's gotten to him first? Idiot sod should have strayed in Kirkwall if he liked the Circle so much." That was the one thing worse than mucking through Ferelden -- mucking through Ferelden for no reason at all.

Alain chewed his lip. "Maybe if we tell -- and by we, I mean you -- tell the Knight-Commander here that they have one of ours, we could get him out?" Alain's palms were wet. He wasn't sure if it was from nervous sweat or from the damp weather, but the thought of going into a locked Circle made his stomach twist.

"I'm not sure how sympathetic they'd be when they find out where we're from," he muttered. Most everyone in the hierarchy had heard about the Gallows by now, and the few Fereldan templars Samson had met had had a distinctly negative view of the whole affair. "Cullen told me some hair-raising stories about what happened here during the Blight."

Not entirely true. Most of what Samson had learned about it, he'd learned from Cullen's nightmares.

"We can't go in there." Alain shook his head. "We'll check in the morning and see if the lake has anything to tell us. Maybe he's not in there. We're not supposed to make trouble, right?"

"We know a man who walked right out of that tower," Samson muttered into his drink. "And I damn well should've asked him about it. If there's a way out, there's a way in. Why don't we just stay here and fish a couple of days? Enjoy the beds. Go out on the water a few times and see if the point moves."

"You think he's in there _getting someone out_?" Alain hissed, face settling back near calm as the innkeeper set a platter of food on the table -- bread, meat, and vegetables, all soaked in butter and gravy. "Thanks."

"More beer?" the innkeeper asked. "I can get you a pitcher."

Samson nodded with his mouth already full and Alain agreed. "Definitely a pitcher, thanks."

As the innkeeper walked away, Samson shrugged. "Mage underground," he said, as he swallowed. "They've done it before."

Alain waited until he'd had a bite of everything before responding. Make that two bites. He hadn't realised how hungry he was until he saw the food. He kept his voice low. "That would be incredibly brave of him, but... it would complicate things for us. For Kirkwall's Circle. Someone escapes from the Fereldan Circle and ends up with us? That could look bad. Especially when, like you say, the view of Kirkwall around here..." He trailed off with a shrug.

Samson grunted and finished chewing his bread. "The policy is not to turn away any mages who come to us. If they've come from another Circle, that's not our problem. Our job is to get them back if they want to come back. Let Cullen worry about the politics."

"And if our friend breaks someone else out? Do we escort them both to Kirkwall? If we're caught, it looks like we're aiding an escape." As sympathetic as Alain was, he had had enough of paying for someone else's bad planning.

"We give 'em what we gave the rest. A few coins and a transit letter that says if they're found they're to be delivered to Kirkwall." Samson shrugged. "And we give 'em the ... so Cullen can put it back in the vault." There were some words Samson wouldn't say, while they were on the road. The last thing he needed was to be forced to defend himself not only as a templar, but as a Kirkwall templar, and one travelling with a mage. "They wind up in Kirkwall, well, we're just collecting apostates, right?"

"For as long as that holds," Alain muttered, glancing around, again. "Who else is in the south? Didn't we have some others we could be following?" He just wanted to be away from this tower. Even travelling with Samson might not be safe enough.

"Check the case when we get to the room. I know we're not down here for one man. Gotta be nearly done -- wasn't much left of that room, and whoever left ... we'll never find most of them. Good enough we find the ones we can and let them know they're still welcome in Kirkwall, when the shit comes down." Samson shook his head and sighed. "There a chantry around here? I feel like I gotta go sit somewhere people still have simple faith. Not in the rich or the Divine, but in Andraste and the Maker. I just gotta shake hands with people who don't just believe with their mouths."

Samson looked tired, the kind of tired that went deeper than a physical heaviness. Alain considered putting in for some time off once they'd rounded up what they could this far south. Not for himself, but for Samson. "That would be nice," he said with a sad smile. "Can't say I've seen too much of that, from inside any towers."

"No, I imagine you wouldn't," Samson sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. "Which is another reason why we need to find these poor bastards."


	48. Chapter 48

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anton finds an unexpected pile of letters that changes the face put on a certain series of events in Kirkwall's history.

Anton was down in the vaults, again, just to get out of his office. He'd found the strangest things in the archives, when he'd started trying to rewrite the laws of Kirkwall -- a nightmarish undertaking that went smoothly for just long enough that he imagined he'd gotten out of the worst of it, before the next challenge arose. Clearly the laws hadn't been enforced as they were written in the better part of a century, at least, and he wanted to ensure that would no longer be the case. Well, mostly. But, then, he wasn't exactly jimmying windows at this point in his career.

Still, the archives were cool and well-lit, even while providing a skilled rogue thousands of places to hide -- and skilled he was, rolling under another reading table, as one of the runners from upstairs passed, no doubt looking for him. And every once in a while, one of those hiding places would be hiding something else -- like the delicate-looking paper folder slipped under the corner brace of the table. Oddly, it looked like official correspondence, as he flipped through it as quietly as he could manage.

He rested the folder on his chest and drew out the first letter -- a message to Viscount Threnhold from... Knight- _Captain_ Meredith. Little of it made sense without any indication of when it was sent and most of the content heartily obscured, but the letter from Commander Guylian, behind it, offered some amount of context. The Commander made clear he was simply passing on a message from the Divine -- that she had requested some changes in Kirkwall's trade policies, particularly the current blockade. Meredith's letter, then, was much clearer. It wasn't simply passing on a message, it was urging action with some undercurrent of a threat. ' _You cannot think to defy the Divine!_ '

"Ah, Meredith," Anton said wistfully. "And here I'd almost forgotten your overbearing ways." Anton took a moment to thank the Maker that his Knight-Commander was his brilliant and sexy husband.

He rested the read letters on his chest on top of the folder and went onto the next one, which turned out to be a letter from Viscount Threnhold, a direct response to Meredith's letter, judging by its tone. His response was firm, borderline scathing, and his refusal absolute. ' _The Divine is not the law in Kirkwall. I am._ ' 

Anton wondered if he could borrow some variation on that phrase. ' _Yes, the dog must sleep on your side of the bed, Cullen. I decree it. I am the law in Kirkwall._ ' Still, he wished he could have seen Meredith's face in response to that letter. He pictured her cheeks getting the blotchy sort of red they would when she was angry.

He wondered at the letter's date. Knight-Commander Guylian was still alive, but if they were bickering over the blockade at this point, he wasn't going to be for long.

"Ah, politics, you ever-loving pain in my ass," he muttered, perusing the next documents.

Guylian, it seemed, had sent only one letter -- or only the one deemed worthy of keeping. The rest seemed to be exchanges with the Harbourmaster and a few council members, regarding the taxes associated with Orlesian commerce versus commerce with other nations of Thedas. The Harbourmaster proposed raising the tax for Tevinter goods, while they were at it, because if they were going to piss off the Divine, they might as well piss off the Black Divine, too, and maybe they could set Orlais and Tevinter at each other's throats instead of theirs. Anton pondered the wisdom of that idea, should the Divine declare an Exalted March. Could they somehow use Tevinter to fend off the incoming Orlesian templars? Probably not, but it might be worth trying, if it came to that. In a situation like that, few things weren't worth trying.

Still, there was nothing in here that suggested Threnhold had anything against Guylian -- certainly not enough to have him hanged in public, which no one actually saw happen. Rather, what they saw was the body hanging, the next morning. Anton wondered if Cullen had the other half of this, or if it had burned in the fire in Meredith's office. She'd tried so hard to hide her involvement in so many things, but this... this was old enough it might not have been in her office, and Anton found himself extremely curious, not least because if what he was starting to suspect was true, they'd stumbled onto a bludgeon that could shake the Chantry to its core.

* * *

  
Anton found Cullen as he expected to find him, in his office, fingers massaging his temples as though to coax out a headache. Anton knocked on the open door when Cullen didn't hear him approach.

Cullen blinked up at his husband, fingers still at his forehead. "Coming in through the door? It must be serious."

"Come now, Knight-Commander. Kirkwall's viscount is much too dignified to climb walls into open windows just to seduce handsome men."

Cullen gave him a wry look, sitting back in his chair as he stretched his back. "That didn't stop you the other day."

Anton waved his hand. "I was on lunch break. I'm not viscount on lunch break. But... I'm afraid my reason for being here is serious. Or at least I suspect it might be."

Cullen straightened in his chair, setting the papers on his desk aside. "Is everyone all right?"

"No recent deaths." Anton dropped the folder on Cullen's desk, much like he had any number of folders full of far more recent events, when they were still dating. He supposed he could call it dating, even if it was largely a series of hurried trysts in closets and the occasional lunch. "Deaths a good bit before either of us arrived, but that implicate the Chantry in both murder and Orlesian politics -- I mean, moreso than they're supposed to be involved in Orlesian politics."

"Orlesian politics sounds more like your problem than mine. Murder might be Aveline's, if she doesn't throw you down a flight of stairs for bringing her a case at least ten years out of date." Cullen leaned down and pulled the whiskey out of the bottom drawer, pouring a finger for himself and two for Anton.

"I have a strange feeling Perrin Threnhold didn't kill Commander Guylian," Anton said, picking up the glass and looking out the window through it. "And that's why it's on your desk. I think Meredith was involved, and I think the archives, here, have proof."

"She set her office on fire," Cullen reminded him.

"Twenty-something years? Would it still have been in her office?" Anton asked, sipping the whiskey.

Cullen's brows knit as he considered that. "Meredith was a paranoid woman, even on her saner days. I can't imagine she wouldn't have destroyed such evidence, if it existed, but... twenty years is a long time. Perhaps she had forgotten about it. And you're thinking, what, that she hid this evidence, whatever form it takes, in the Gallows' archives?" Cullen shook his head and took a long gulp of his drink. "I don't think whatever it is is going to be labelled as such. It would be near impossible to find."

"Which is what makes it an ingenious hiding spot," Anton said.

Cullen hummed unconvincingly, glancing back at the letters on his desk, reports from Alain and Samson regarding their missing charges. "Anton, I understand your curiosity, but the man is long dead and so is Meredith. We are both busy men. Is this really worth our time and resources? I don't need another letter to tell me that Meredith was a foul woman."

"No, but what you'd have is a series of letters to tell you that Divine Beatrix ordered the execution of the Viscount of Kirkwall." Anton sat on the corner of the desk. "And did so for entirely economic reasons. Do you have any idea the kind of upheaval that could cause? At the very least, in the event of a March, we'd go down fighting and drag the Chantry down with us."

"Why would I want to drag the Chantry down?" Cullen asked, still side-eyeing Anton. "Aside from the enormous piles of paperwork and justifications sitting on my desk."

"Because it's not about the Maker or Andraste. If I'm right -- and I'm fairly sure I am -- the Chantry and the _templars_ are an Orlesian invasion force. And Guylian resisted that. And you're going to resist that, if I know you, which I like to think I do, as often and horizontally as possible." Anton ran a hand through his hair, which was starting to get a bit long. He was going to have to do something about that before he started staining his collars. "You know I believe in what you're trying to do here, but I also have to look at the actual international politics, and what I see is that Orlais has been trying to get back in here since they got kicked out. Viscount Dumar was a lot more lenient to Orlesian merchants than is really called for, but every child in Kirkwall knows who installed Dumar as Viscount. After a series of scandals to get my grandfather out of the running. I'd like to believe Divine Justinia is above all this, but I can't trust that, Cullen."

Cullen wiped a hand over his face, felt the growth of stubble where he'd missed shaving that morning. "I'd always assumed any disapproval from the Chantry would come in the form of a March, which I suppose is naive. As terrible as it would be, we'd at least see that coming. But I've heard enough tall tales about the Divine's Left Hand to know that might not be the case." He shrugged helplessly. "I suppose it does not hurt to know what we're up against, but I'm not sure there's much that we can do that we're not already doing. Except for more praying, maybe. Crossing our fingers."

"Blackmail." Anton shrugged. "Or skipping that, we go straight to exposure. We make what happened here the Chantry's fault. Which, to be fair, it is. I don't want to destroy the faith of the people, but Orlais maintains fortresses full of thinly disguised Orlesian soldiers, and I mean you no offence when I say it, in almost every major city in Thedas. And I'm holding half the papers that say the Divine, albeit not this one, has tried to use the templars to that end within our lifetimes. And in the end, she succeeded, but only by having the Commander executed."

"And you think exposing this is going to make us less of a target instead of more of a target?" Cullen shoved his chair back and then tipped it back, feet on the edge of his desk. "I don't think that's going to work the way you want it to."

"I want the option," Anton insisted, knocking back the whiskey and stopping himself from smacking the glass on the desk. "And I want the rest of the conspirators."

"They're probably dead. It's been twenty-odd years." Cullen dug his thumbs into the inner curves of his eyesockets. "After something like that, the _demons_ probably got them."

"Or, you know, I'm sitting on the council with an Orlesian traitor," Anton shot back. "Look, I'm not asking you to do anything but let me go in there with one or two of the Tranquil. They won't lie for me, which means there's going to be a perfectly clean story of what I took out and where I got it. No one was ready for this, when it happened, except Meredith. And then she tried to do it a second time, but with much less subtlety. This is our city, and I need to know what's going on. With Varric in Antiva or wherever he's run off to on holiday, it's a little harder to hear everything that goes on in the streets, so I have to do this myself."

Cullen considered his husband for a long moment, swirling the rest of his drink in his glass. "I see your point," he confessed. If someone alive had been a part of this, if that someone was still in play, they would need to take action. "If you want access to the archives, you can have it, and I think we can spare a few Tranquil to help you. I might donate a bottle of whiskey to the cause, too, after a few hours of wading through papers."

Anton slid his empty glass back to Cullen. "Tranquil and whiskey. All the tools I need."


	49. Chapter 49

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samson and Alain travel on into Orlais, and then the lights go out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *gasp* An extra chapter! Mostly to make up for the fact that we're like six weeks ahead of ourselves in By the Petty Crown!

Samson pulled his coat tighter as they continued down the road from Orzammar into Orlais. Jader would be their first stop, he thought, and he couldn't wait for it. Anything that wasn't freezing cold would be an improvement. Why had the Maker put mountains here? This was a shitty place for mountains. It was also a shitty place for snow, but anywhere he had to go was a shitty place for snow. At least they'd been able to get a seat on this oxcart, which beat walking in the snow.

"You feeling all right?" Alain asked, offering a cup of warm broth.

That was the thing about travelling with a mage, Samson had noticed. There was always warm broth, no matter how cold it got. "What by the burning socks of Andraste was that silly prick doing in the Circle?" he huffed, gratefully taking the cup with both hands. "I just can't get over that."

"Not everyone wanted to leave the Circle," Alain explained again. "Some of them just wanted to leave Kirkwall. You were there. Can you really blame them?"

"I was also in Ferelden and am about to be in Orlais. _Those_ are places I certainly wouldn't mind leaving, not leaving for." For all his grouching, he could understand the desire for consistency. People get into routines, get used to ways of living.

"Not everyone can handle an apostate's life," Alain said with the wistfulness of someone who had often considered that option. "For someone desperate to leave Kirkwall, that's the only option aside from finding another Circle. Either choice is a gamble."

"Maybe, but I know which gamble I'd take," Samson muttered. He paused to blow on the steaming broth, cradling its warmth to his chest. After a sip, it warmed him from within. "The Gallows wasn't exactly a bed of roses, but from what I hear, neither is a place like Kinloch Hold. Demons nearly wiping out the tower. Sometimes I think going to any Circle at all is damning yourself."

"There's irony there, you know. A templar distrusting any other templars."

"Now, be fair. I don't trust anyone."

"You do all right with Cullen," Alain pointed out, leaning back against the side of the cart to check for lights ahead. They'd come to Jader soon, but the trees were still too thick to make out anything ahead but the road. "There's some rumours in there, too."

"What, that he's got a soft heart, and he'd never have taken me back if we hadn't shared a room a decade ago?"

"Something like that, but with a little more it's a good thing he's got a handsome, young husband." Alain chuckled and jammed his hands into opposite sleeves.

"It is a good thing. He needs somebody to look out for him, the poor little bastard. Sheer blighted stubbornness he didn't end up like me." Samson shook his head, apparently oblivious to Alain's intimations.

"That too." Alain nodded. "I like Anton. He's exciting. Why can't I meet more girls like Anton?"

Samson looked askance at the mage. "Have you met _any_ girls like Anton?"

Alain tipped his head as he considered, breath misting in front of his face. "Not exactly, but there was this one woman he apparently used to hang around with. A pirate queen with a great..." He started to gesture towards his chest, only to think better of it. "...sense of humour. I imagined she had such great adventures."

"So that's your type, is it? Roguish adventurers with great... senses of humour?"

"Didn't say it was my only type, but it certainly is a type I like so far." 

While Samson sipped at his broth, Alain pretended not to notice the way he shivered and reached into his bag to check on the phylacteries they were tracking. All still glowing and starting to let off their own heat. It was always good to know that they were on the right track.

"I probably could've loved a woman, once," Samson sighed. "Not one in particular, but one... somewhere. Too late, now. I found my mistress, and she's not patient." He gave the case tucked into his coat a gentle squeeze.

"No harm in looking," Alain said with a shrug, as the glow of the town began to spill into the road in front of them.

"Looking's half the harm, already. I'm too far out to bother myself with pretty girls' smiles. They're all smiling at you, anyway." Samson laughed and leaned closer to the side, looking for a cheap inn, as they came into town. More like a city, from the look of it, as they came around the last bend in the road. And a city would mean a proper inn with a decent number of beds and food that wasn't roast and porridge. Not that he disliked roast and porridge, but he was beginning to think there wasn't much else to eat in Ferelden.

"Me? No, that... that is... No, not me." Red crept up over Alain's cheeks.

"Sounds like you're not looking either," Samson teased, as the cart drew to a stop.

"City of Jader," the driver called back to them. "You gents be careful getting down. The road's a little slick."

"Finally," Samson muttered. His knees were stiff from sitting in the cold for too long, and they ached as he stepped out into the road, stretching his back. Alain managed an even less graceful exit, squeaking as his foot slipped on stone. One hand still clutching his broth, Samson caught the mage under the arm and steadied him. "Smooth."

"Thanks." Alain righted himself and pulled his bag in front of him as they stepped off the road, checking to make sure he hadn't jostled the contents too much. All the phylacteries were still there, glowing and pulsing warmly. 

Alain was about to close the bag again when one in the middle flickered and went out. "Samson?"

"Mm?" Samson didn't turn, busy reading the signs on the buildings and looking for an inn. 

" _Samson_." Alain trotted to catch up with him, angling the bag to hide its contents from passers-by. "One of them just went out."

"Went out?" Samson asked sharply. Standing close, Alain showed him the bag's contents, and Samson shook his head, shoulders sagging wearily. "Poor blighter. Looks like we've lost one. Not much we--" A second phylactery flickered as he watched, and Samson swallowed. "Let's get to an inn."

"What's going on?"

"I hope that's a coincidence," Samson muttered, but another that had been brightening as they'd headed into Orlais went dark. "Shit. As if I needed another reason not to like Orlais." He glanced around, as if expecting trouble, and grabbed Alain's arm. A tavern sign beckoned, and he pointed with his free hand. "Inside, now. I want walls behind us."

"What --?"

"Someone else found them first," Samson said, hurrying Alain toward the door. "I hate Orlais. Always thought it was just because I'm a Marcher. Guess not. I should be proud. The templars here are very good at their jobs."


	50. Chapter 50

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jowan tries, once again, to rescue Lily from Aeonar.

The question, this time, wasn't how he was getting in. The question was how he was going to get the guards at the door out of his way. This time, though, there was no time to fuck up again. The White Spire had fallen -- it wasn't even an annulment, as far as he knew. The templars just lost their shit and started killing people, by all accounts, and if that was the way it was going to be, Aeonar had to be next on the list. And as far as he knew, Lily was still in there.

Dead or alive, he wasn't leaving without her.

The last time, he hadn't been trying to summon a demon. He wasn't even actually sure if he had summoned the thing, or if the Veil was so thin it had just grabbed onto the first thread of magic that wasn't stuck inside that place and followed it out. And that was honestly terrifying, but he thought that maybe he could use it to his advantage, if it happened again. He was sure a demon would be much more interesting than one mage trying to sneak _into_ the fortress. And this place was a fortress, he reminded himself, studying the outer wall. A Tevinter fortress designed to contain experimental magics. Which, now that he thought about it probably meant there were wards to prevent demons from escaping. Assuming, of course, the templars hadn't destroyed those in some campaign against inexplicable ancient Tevinter things.

That could definitely work to his advantage, he decided. Maybe he should do it on purpose, this time -- the demons were obviously close to the surface, here, and it probably wouldn't take much to pull a couple through. He'd done it before and it had worked out... well, mostly. It would've worked out if Lily had come away with him. Assuming those weren't his demons that caused all the problems at Kinloch Hold, of course. But, the Mages' Collective seemed to be blaming that on Uldred, which was fairly likely, all things considered. Uldred definitely had a particular thread of research he was fond of, and it had been his books Jowan had learned from.

But, first? The geese. He had twenty-seven runes, each one of which would summon a single goose for about ten minutes, and they were all tied to the same trigger. He didn't think he'd need ten minutes, really. He didn't have to get that far.

The first step was to throw the runes over the walls and pray, with a particular emphasis on the praying part, when Jowan realised just how high those walls were. After a few false starts and a few more accidental knocks on the head, Jowan managed to lay out the runes at strategic points along the inside of the walls. If anyone had noticed the runes, they were quiet about it.

Jowan moved back through the trees until he was within sight of the gate and the pair of guards half dozing against the wall. He'd managed to get through with his flailing before, and this time he planned to do more than just step inside and run around like a maniac. Steadying himself, Jowan drew in a breath and uttered the trigger word.

Startled honking and the flapping of wings told Jowan the runes had worked, and a chorus of shouts told Jowan they were serving their intended purpose. The guards at the gate snapped awake, exchanged puzzled looks, and the taller one nudged open the gate enough to peek inside. A goose came flying at his face, honking and flailing, and the guard fell over with a screech.

More honking and swearing sprung up at other points along the wall, and Jowan slipped in, easily, between distracted guards swarmed by angry geese. And... that looked like a lot more than just thirtyish of the feathery bastards. How in the Void...? No time to wonder -- just time to get in. He ducked into an alley between a pair of outbuildings, and kept on toward that central spire. As long as he stayed in dimly-lit areas, no one would take him for anything but another guard chasing or being chased by geese.

Still, this wearing trousers thing was getting to him. It was unseemly. He kept looking down to be sure he was covered -- he felt exposed without the heavy drape of his robes, but they'd just have been in his way. Leather armour, the Collective had advised, when he implied he meant to go hunting bereskarn. Which was nice and all, but he was perpetually sure he was flashing his knob -- an idea made even worse by the unexpected flood of geese. How many of them _were_ there?

The air shimmered thickly as he bolted under the next arcade. That was not something air was supposed to do, he was pretty sure. It was harder to hide as he got closer to the central tower -- which was obvious, now that he thought about it. The fortress had been designed to expose and repel invaders -- exactly what he was, in this instance. He couldn't afford to be distracted by the crawling green fog that tasted of magic.

Something was _wrong_. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. But, he hadn't gotten this close, last time. He reassured himself it was some part of the tower's defences, and pushed forward, ignoring the faint figures reaching for him, in the corners of his vision. Horrors, he was sure. It was just some sort of Entropy wards or something.

Between the fog and the geese, Jowan had trouble seeing much of anything, but he ploughed on in the direction of the spire, hoping it wouldn't magically change locations on him. That would be his luck, really. There was a horrified scream behind him, back in the direction of the gate, and Jowan wondered which templar was _that_ upset over goose shit.

Jowan skidded to a stop in front of the tower doors, finding himself within kicking distance of a pair of templars. He froze, expecting a smite and possibly a gauntleted fist to the face, but the templars were too busy flailing and arguing to take note of him. Jowan eyed the doors behind them, wondering if he could just... sort of... He darted around them and into the building before they could decide he was someone worth catching.

Odd. The green fog had followed him inside, painting stone walls with a sickly glow. What kind of ward had he set off, exactly?

He didn't figure it mattered. What mattered was getting people out of here, before any messages from Val Royeaux got through. Frankly, he was a bit surprised the tower hadn't already been... he supposed 'annulled' was still the word, even if it was a prison. More of a prison.

"Demons!" came a powerful bellow from further up the hall. "Smite first and ask questions later! You stop all magic in this building! Engage the wards and seal us in -- if we don't make it, nothing gets out!"

Jowan barely made it into the second set of doors, darting between a pair of templars cranking them shut. He recognised the rune engraved on them -- a rune that would be whole once they closed. He'd just trapped himself inside the single worst place he could imagine being -- a place he'd summoned demons to avoid ending up.

The spell flew from his hands as the thought crossed his mind, and both templars shot back, stunned. It was too late, though. The rune lit up, and the only way out would be whatever ritual was needed to disengage it. Keys. Keys first. Get people out of the cells, then worry about getting them out of the building. He tried to ignore the extra hallways in the corners of his vision, as they filled up with horrors in templar plate. Those weren't real. Those couldn't hurt him, just distract him from the things that could.

It occurred to Jowan that he hadn't really planned this far ahead, but then, he hadn't really been sure what to expect this far ahead. He prayed to whatever god was listening that his improvisation went better this time around. Cells lined the hall, filled with confused shouts, fingers and the occasional hand reaching through the bars. The prisoners were trapped with no idea what was going on.

"It's all right," Jowan tried to soothe them, even as he frantically searched about for keys or someone with keys or something that could be used to pry open cell doors in the event of no keys. "I'm going to get you out! I'm going to get you all out!" He tugged on a few cell doors just to check that they were locked, peering inside and hoping to find a familiar mousey face. "Lily?" he called out as he searched. "Anyone know Lily? Is she here?"

What if she wasn't there? What if he'd been too late? What if she'd died never knowing he was coming for her? These fears pulled tight around his throat as he searched and found nothing except for more locked doors.

"Does anyone know how to open these doors?" That suddenly also seemed like a practical question. "I wish I could find some fucking keys!" he shouted, frustrated, turning around in a circle as he moved down the hall, toward the increasingly loud sounds of combat, deeper inside. They'd always said Aeonar was the final test for abominations. Had someone given in? Had someone managed to get a demon through whatever those wards were?

Curious, he watched the ceiling, sure the sounds were coming from above, and promptly tripped over a square bar on the tiles, falling on his face. Great, he hadn't been hit once and he probably looked like he'd been decked. 'Heroic', he hoped, blotting at his split lip. He picked up the bar and turned it over, noticing the line of runes down its length.

"He's got a key!" came a shout from a nearby cell. "Hey, hey! You with the key! Open the damn door!"

Jowan blinked at the runed bar. Key? _Magical_ locks. Of course. Like the ones in the cellars of the tower. "Does it have a command word? What am I supposed to do with it?"

"Look at it, stupid!" a frustrated woman shouted down the hall. "Line up the runes!"

He turned the key around and pressed it against what he thought were matching runes on the handle of a door, which opened easily as he pulled on it. The dark-skinned woman on the other side threw her arms around him, shoving him out into the hall, and pressed her lips to each of his cheeks.

"We're getting out of here!" she shouted into the hall, ripping the key out of Jowan's hand and slapping it onto the next handle. "Look at this idiot! He can't work a key, but he's come to save us all! What's your name, boy? Who do we follow out of this place?"

Jowan blinked down at his hand where the key had been, a bit dazed by her onslaught. "...what? Oh. I'm Jowan." He answered before considering that he should take offense at being called an idiot. Most of the time, he would agree, but today? He puffed up his chest. "And an idiot wouldn't have figured out how to break into this place!"

"This is you?" asked a man on the other side of the hall, waiting for his door to be unlocked. He gestured around them, indicating the shouting and sounds of battle above them.

"Uh." Jowan frowned at the ceiling. "It's a direct result of... some of my actions, yes." He was still mostly certain he hadn't summoned those demons.

" _Fuck_ ," the woman with the key swore. She threw her arms up in front of the door at the end of the hall. "What the blight is the use of getting out of our cells if we can't get past this door? The man _is_ an idiot!"

A woman next to her struck the door with lightning before someone could stop her, the flash of light leaving Jowan seeing spots, a jagged line seared into the wall and ceiling, but the door unharmed.

"That?" snapped with the woman with the key. "Is not something we are going to do again!" The caster cowed and threw up her hands.

"Where's Lily?" Jowan asked again, his priorities a little different. Escaping wouldn't matter if he couldn't find her. "We'll find a way out. Just keep unlocking these doors!"

" _Who's_ Lily?" asked a pale man, just coming out of his cell. "If she's not on this floor, none of us know her. And if she's not on this floor, you're going to have to get through whatever's going on up there to get to her. She worth all that?"

"She's worth me breaking into Aeonar, and you ask me that?" Jowan laughed, nervously, running a hand through his hair.

"You're a twice-damned idiot, is what you are," said the woman with the key, "and that's a lucky woman, if she's still alive. Nobody ever broke in here for me!" She paused and held out a hand to Jowan. "Asha, like the Queen Mother of Thedas, Maker rest her."

Jowan took the hand and squeezed it firmly. "You coming upstairs with me, Asha?"

"Somewhere in here, there's a templar who knows how to open those doors. I'm not seeing any swords on this floor, so if we want to get out, we're going up. They probably headed up once the doors were closed. Captain's office is up there somewhere. He's not a bad man, for a templar. I'd like it better if we didn't have to kill him."

More than a few mages looked less than thrilled with this suggestion, but none complained. Jowan wondered how bad things were in here that they were willing risk templar and demon wrath to escape.

"Well... maybe if we make enough of a show of force, we won't need to," Jowan said with a confidence he didn't feel. Truly, he had no idea what he was doing, and it was too late to hope it didn't show. "Are you all with me?"

Their answering mutters weren't the rousing cheer Jowan had been hoping for, but at least most of them sounded agreeable.

"Great. Asha, bring the key. I'm assuming it works on the upper levels too?"

She shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine, Jowman."

"Jowan."

"Close enough."

Jowan supposed she'd already called him worse things. He turned for the stairs, when another mage stopped him, an older mage with a stooped gait and wiry grey hair.

"Hold on, we need a plan of attack," he said.

Jowan shrugged. "We're mages. They'll hit us with smite."

"Then we should make sure we hit them first." The old mage squinted at the gathered prisoners. "Does anyone have any spells to knock them out, since apparently we're not planning to kill anyone?" He sounded disappointed by this.

"Is that such a good idea?" asked Jowan. "Magic seems a bit... weird here. Who knows what that will actually do."

"Look around you, Jobun --"

"Jowan." He sighed.

"Name's not important. What's important is that magic is the only thing we have. The beds are bolted to the floors. There's nothing here to use for a weapon but what the Maker's given us." The old man shook his head.

"Asha?" A younger woman with long dark hair was running her fingers through the air and licking her fingertips. "The spirits have come for us, just like you said. Is there a reason not to let them lead us, now?"

"They led us before. Why would they not help us again? We're not trapped the same way, now. We can fight for ourselves -- we have to. Let them come to us. Hope and Faith and Valour lead us!" Asha laughed and held up her hands.

"Wait, we're here because they're afraid we'll turn into abominations, and she's what, just going to turn into an abomination?" the pale man asked, crossing his arms.

"She's a seer," said the dark man beside him, cuffing the back of the pale man's head. "She's not going to turn into an abomination. Maker's breath, where are you from that you don't know a seer?"

"Not where you're from, apparently," the pale man grumbled with a glare. "Shit like that is how you end up in this place to begin with."

Jowan shrugged. "He's not exactly wrong."

"Shut up, Owen," said the dark-haired woman by Asha.

"It's _Jowan_!"

But as he complained, Jowan felt the air shimmer again. This time, he didn't just feel it -- he saw it. The air rippled, and out of the corner of his eye the ripples looked like they were taking a humanoid shape. When he looked directly at the ripples, however, they only looked like air. Weird.

Asha crowed in victory. "My dear friend!" she said, addressing the rippling air.

When he looked away, Jowan could swear he saw a woman with a shimmering dress and golden hair. Faith, he knew, without knowing how he knew. Exactly as he had expected her, somehow, and yet not at all like the descriptions he'd read about. 

Another spirit joined her, this one armour-clad and with a booming voice. "YOU UNDERTAKE A TASK OF GREAT BRAVERY," he said, sounding approving. "I SHALL LEAD YOU TO GLORY."

"Don't need glory," muttered the old man. "Just a way out of here."

Led by spirits, they were a small army as they climbed the steps. Jowan hoped they would strike the templars as intimidating.

What lay beyond the doors at the top of the steps was more intimidating than Jowan imagined them to be. Little black things that seemed entirely composed of teeth melted back into the floor as the templars struck at them, and screams echoed in his ears just like when he'd tried to get into the dungeon to visit one or another of those damned idiots. There hadn't been a way in, but from the right corner of the archives, you could hear what went on below. He always wished he hadn't stayed to listen, but he never thought he'd hear it again. The sound rang off the walls around him.

And then a glowing hand settled on his shoulder, and all he could hear was the sisters singing the Chant in the chapel. "None of this is real," he decided, not quite sure what he meant as the words came out of his mouth.

Beside him, the mage with the lightning drew down another bolt, striking at a demon poised over a bloodied templar. "I always said we weren't the problem," she hissed.

"Come to us!" Asha called out to the templars in the hall. "We can protect you!"

"I hope you're right," the grey-haired man muttered, slapping a wall of ice across several demons and clipping a templar.

Jowan eased the key out of Asha's hand. "We need to get them out. They can help us," he reminded her, as he started opening doors. The spirit stayed with him, and he started to sing along with his memories. He'd be fine. The Maker would protect him. All he had to do was the right thing.

Jowan was methodical. He moved from one cell to the next, unlocking doors and issuing quick commands: "Get behind the others. Help where you can." His words carried weight because he believed them, and for the first time in his life, he wondered how he could have ever doubted his own strength.

He was so focused on his task that he almost didn't see Lily when he unlocked her door. Even seeing her, he almost didn't recognise her. Her hair was longer and duller, matted at the ends, and her cheekbones stood out more sharply than he remembered. But those eyes were Lily's, brimming as they were with tears and what Jowan could only assume was relief and gratitude as she --

...punched him in the face. The split lip that had started to scab reopened, and Jowan felt blood trickle down his chin as he teetered, trying to remember which way was up.

"I'm sorry," Lily said then, just as quickly as she'd hit him. Her hands opened and closed as though wanting to touch him or shake him senseless. Jowan couldn't be sure which. "Or... no, I'm not sorry. What are you doing here, Jowan? What did you do?"

Jowan licked his lip, the Chantry sisters' singing only a distant hum now. "Ow?"

Lightning cut through the air behind him, nearly singeing his sleeve. His yelp drew a half-hearted apology from the caster. He was going to die here, wasn't he.

"Jowan!" Lily smacked him sharply. "What are you _doing_?"

"Did you find that girl?" Asha called up the hall. "You stopped moving awful quick, Joman!"

Something was going on behind him, and he put a hand on the doorframe, unsure whether that was to steady him or to keep it from getting into the room. "Val Royeaux... The White Spire's fallen. I'm here to get you out before the order to annul. You didn't think I'd just let this go, did you?"

"Blood magic, Jowan?" Lily snapped, finally. "Blood magic? You said it wasn't true, and then you summoned demons! Are these yours, in the hall?"

"I have no idea." Jowan shrugged. "The only thing I summoned were geese. And now there's demons in the halls, and the seers from downstairs brought spirits to help us fight them. I came for you, but I'm getting everyone out of here. Just... something's... weird. I think we set off some of the original wards or something. The air's wrong. It's all soupy in here."

"The Veil's thin. It's part of the test. The demons are always just a whisper away, and sometimes people give in." Lily stopped there, but the 'like you' carried, just the same.

"Go to Asha," Jowan said, stepping out of the doorway. "You can say whatever you want to me, after we get rid of the demons." 

Something moved, in the corner of his eye, as he opened the next door, and he brought up a shield without thinking too much of it. Once everyone was with Asha, he'd bring up a real barrier and they'd stay covered until the demons went down and stayed down. For now, he'd take care of himself and get back near Lily as quick as he could. This far down the hall, he couldn't reach to shield her, too -- not if he kept going this way and she went back down to the rest of the mages.

Still. She was alive. She hated him, but she was alive and he planned to keep it that way. That knowledge was enough to give him a second wind as he darted from one cell to the next, key in hand. A demon bounced off his shield, making him stumble, and he caught sight of a face full of red eyes and serrated teeth before lightning scorched it into nothing. The air squeaked out of Jowan when he realised he'd stopped breathing.

"Come on, Johnson!" shouted Asha.

"It's Jowan!" he shouted back.

"I'm Johnson," said the mage behind the door he'd just unlocked. He pushed past Jowan towards the other mages. "Coming, my lady!"

"Oh," Jowan grumbled. By the time he had finished unlocking the cell doors, the hall had fallen eerily quiet. The demons plaguing them had either fled or been killed, bodies dissipating into ash, leaving behind a wild-eyed and tense group of templars, mages, and spirits. The templars looked around the mages and at each other, still gripping their swords.

"Whatever you're thinking, don't," said Asha. "Something is going on, and if you want to live through this, we're your best hope."

Even through the helmet's visor, Jowan could see the whites of one templar's eyes. He seemed young, barely a recruit, and Jowan would rather not have to kill him.

"Demons," the young templar panted, backing into a wall between cell doors. "You brought demons in here, because that's what mages do!"

"I brought geese in here!" Jowan protested. "Just geese. That's it. No demons. No spirits. Just geese. And I'm really not sure what all these spirits are doing here, either, but ... well... there they are."

"Spirits? Spirits!? They're _demons_! You're surrounded by them!" the young templar shouted, keeping his sword between himself and Jowan.

Asha looked like she might start something, but one of the older templars clapped a gauntleted hand on the kid's shoulder.

"Do you want to live?" the older templar asked.

"Yes, Knight-Lieutenant."

"Then your biggest concern right now is determining what's on our side, and right now, that's these folks. Whatever they are, they're just as interested in getting rid of the demons as you are," the Knight-Lieutenant assured him. "When that's over, we can work out any other differences we might have."

"Just so you know, I'm not going to kill you," Jowan said, holding up his hands. "But, if you don't stop pointing that sword at me, I have nothing against knocking you unconscious. If you really want to sleep through this fight, I'll be happy to help."

The older templar squeezed the boy's shoulder. The kid's eyes were still too wide, his breathing still too ragged, but he nodded jerkily and sheathed his sword. Jowan breathed a little easier and hoped the templar didn't freak out later at some inopportune moment.

"So," said the older templar, finally dropping his hand from his subordinate's shoulder, "you lot came from downstairs. I'm going to take that to mean the doors downstairs are locked. Either that, or someone really needs to draw you a map."

"They're locked," answered the grey-haired mage. "Your... colleagues locked all of us in here with the demons. From what I understand, that leaves them locked outside with the geese. I don't know about you, but that doesn't seem particularly fair."

Jowan didn't point out that there were probably demons outside too. He was surrounded by people who were armed and dangerous, and he would prefer not dying just yet, not until he had a chance to make things up to Lily.

"Relax," said the Knight-Lieutenant. "They were just doing their jobs. The Knight-Captain can still get us out, but he's further in. We might want to get to him before any demons do. Or before more pop out of the floor tiles."

"Lieutenant, is it? Which one are you? I could never keep you feathered types straight." Asha stepped forward, flanked by spirits, and held out her hand.

The Knight-Lieutenant took off his helmet and tucked it under his arm. "Owain," he said, taking her hand. "I don't suppose you saw any other ... 'feathers' downstairs?"

"Everyone on the bottom either left or came up," Asha replied, shaking her head. "We were hoping to find Captain Brynn. He can get the doors open, can't he? There's something wrong in here, and I don't think it's the usual troubles."

Owain reached out tentatively, offering a hand to the glowing figure in platemail at Asha's side.

"A BRAVE MAN!" The spirit replied, jovially shaking and patting his hand. "YOUR FEAR MUST NEVER CONTROL YOU."

"I do my best," Owain responded, before turning his attention back to Asha. "He's not possessing anyone, is he?"

"That's Courage, just as he is. No bones and no blood, just a spirit." The corner of Asha's mouth turned up. "You're getting it, aren't you?"

"That's not supposed to be possible," Owain agreed, nodding, eyes a bit wide.

"You see why what's out there is just as important as what's going on in here. It's not safe in here any more. I don't know if those wards are going to keep anything in except us, and I do know they don't seem to be keeping anything out." Asha shrugged at the Knight-Lieutenant and his men. "I think we need to get everyone together. The more of us there are, the safer we're going to be."

Jowan had no idea what Asha was alluding to, but he caught the uneasy look on Owain's face. "All I did was summon geese," he said, again, earning him flat looks from templars and mages. That _was_ all he had done, right? Or had the geese turned into these fowl demons? ...foul. Even years later, Anders's sense of bad timing and puns were difficult to shake.

"Oh, I can imagine the mess that's made of the courtyard," Owain sighed, as though geese were a greater inconvenience than demons. He motioned the spirits ahead of him with a deferential nod. "Please, lead the way."

"WE SHALL TRIUMPH OVER THE FOES IN OUR PATH," said Courage as he glided forward, which Jowan interpreted as a 'yeah, sure'.

Jowan stepped back to walk with Lily, a barrier ready at his fingertips in case they needed it. She looked at everything except him as they walked, hands trying to fix the worst of her snarly hair. "Lily, I--"

"Thank you for coming for me," she said, voice carefully level. "I do mean that. But please don't start on any more excuses, Jowan."

"I wasn't--"

"You were." Lily offered him a sad smile. "I still know you well enough to expect that, or have you changed so greatly over the years?"

Not as much as she had, Jowan suspected, heart sinking into his shoes as he wished he could have gotten here sooner. "I was just going to say it's good to see you."

"I'm glad you're still alive," Lily reassured him. "I worried you might not make it, alone. I wish things could have been different, but... here we are."

"Both of us in Aeonar," Jowan sighed, looking around at the walls, as they headed for the next set of stairs.

Somewhere in the middle, Jowan lost count of the stairs and the floors and the cells he'd opened, so stepping out onto the final floor, where the stairs went no higher, was a bit of a shock. Enormous windows offered a view of... Maker, that wasn't the northern coast at all. He was quite sure the sky he'd left behind hadn't been... green.

"Where the blight...?"

"WHEREVER YOU WANT TO BE." As tremendously loud as the spirits were, that voice seemed light and indefinite, somehow. Dizzying.

"Captain?" Owain pounded on a brightly glowing door. "It's most of us! We lost a few, but the demons are gone for now! We need to hurry and get out of here before the next wave comes!"

The captain's response was painfully long in coming, and if not for the active ward, Jowan would have assumed no one was in the room. Though there was still the chance that someone was in the room but not alive. That would be unfortunate.

"...Lieutenant?" came a voice at last, and Owain seemed to sag with his relief.

"It's safe for the moment, Captain. Please open the door. We need to leave while we can!"

Another long pause, and Jowan wondered if everything seemed so slow because his heart was beating so fast. He kept staring out the windows and trying to see something that made sense. Then the glow around the door faded, and the handle turned. The door opened on a man in plate with a close-trimmed beard and a receding hairline.

"Owain, it is good to see you," he said, clapping a hand on the lieutenant's shoulder even as he eyed the mix of people behind him. That was the look of a man counting and calculating, and Jowan suspected he was trying to figure out the templar to mage ratio. They both knew it wasn't in the templars' favour, so Brynn nodded and smiled at the collocation in front of him. 

Jowan still stood frozen by one of the windows. "Has anyone looked outside recently? I don't... Ferelden didn't have green skies, last I looked. Not even this close to the water. And I know we're pretty high up, but I don't think that's the ground I walked on to get here."

Captain Brynn looked a bit ill at the words, but kept smiling. "I was hoping that was an illusion brought on by the wards..."

"Captain, you've been as kind to us as the Chantry allows," Asha began, biting back any remarks she might have about the Chantry's 'kindness'. "So, I'd like to introduce you to my friend Faith, and I hope you can take her word for what's going on here."

Brynn looked up at the golden-haired woman who stood a few inches taller than him, a faint blue glow crawling across her skin. Something about her set him strangely at ease. He'd done the Maker's will, and all would be well, if he just held on. "My pleasure, Faith. Are you from downstairs? I don't recall your face." Which wasn't quite true, but he had the sense he'd met her somewhere outside this place.

"WE HAVE MET IN YOUR DREAMS, BUT NOW YOU HAVE COME TO VISIT ME." Faith's voice was like wind in glass -- a hurricane in glass, really. "IT IS KIND OF YOU TO COME, BUT THIS IS NOT A TRADITIONAL MEANS OF TRAVEL, FOR YOUR PEOPLE. YOU COME IN DREAMS, NOT IN FLESH."

"What the lady means to say," Owain muttered, "is that we're in the Fade."


	51. Chapter 51

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen receives the news about the White Spire. Kinloch Hold sets in motion an election for a new First Enchanter.

Anton whistled as he walked down the hall, a bottle of wine tucked under his arm. Between politics and magic politics, Anton hadn't seen much of his husband all week, and he planned to fix that, thanks to the huffy Orlesians who had insisted on ending their meeting early. A few extra free hours were hard to come by, and he planned to use his by plying his husband with wine and a few other things.

Except his husband was already looking well plied when Anton paused in the open doorway, hand poised to knock. Cullen was sharing a bottle with First Enchanter Tim, a bottle Anton hoped had started half-empty. Likely not, considering the way his hand swayed as he poured them each another round.

"Good evening, gentlemen," Anton said, and the drunkards turned bleary eyes his way. "It looks like I've brought wine to a whiskey party. What is the occasion?"

"The world is going to shit," came Cullen's lazy-tongued reply. "But, that's not much of an occasion. That's a... a daily thing." Tim nodded along in profound agreement. "Want a glass?"

"In a moment." Anton stepped into the room, hooking a foot around another chair and pulling it up to the desk next to Tim. "I am aware of the world's shit status but not of the particular shitty event that led to you drinking what I can only assume is an epic amount of whiskey. Has there been a message from the Chantry? Should we be preparing for an Exalted March?"

"Back at Ki.. at K-- at the tower. In Ferelden. There was the sweetest old healer. And she's dead. And so's the First Enchanter. I _liked_ them!" Cullen leaned forward to rest his head on the edge of the desk, waiting for the room to stop spinning.

"There was a conclave held at the White Spire, in Orlais," Tim said, sounding much less drunk. Anton realised that meant even more of that bottle had likely gone into his husband. "Turned into a slaughter. Half the Circles in Thedas left without First Enchanters. _Templars_." Tim spat the last word.

Cullen pointed at Tim and then turned up his thumb. "Killed everyone."

"Not everyone. Not nearly. But, more than enough." Tim sipped his whiskey. "And some of your husband's friends from Ferelden."

"Wasn't that the conference you were trying to go to?" Anton asked after a moment's pause, reaching out to pet Cullen's hair. "Didn't go because Kirkwall's Kirkwall?"

Tim nodded. "This... I never imagined it would get this bad, if I didn't go. Kirkwall being Kirkwall, you know."

"This... it's not what was supposed to happen, is it?" Anton asked, thinking of the letters he'd found. "This wasn't a set-up from the start, right?"

"If it was, the Divine didn't know about it. Might've been something with the Knight-Commander over there. Been a lot of templars rebelling lately." Tim patted Cullen's elbow. "Kirkwall's made history there, too. Both ways."

Cullen's answering smile came out more of a wince. "Huzzah for Kirkwall," he muttered before washing the words down with a drink.

"I'm sorry," Anton murmured, still stroking back Cullen's hair. The words felt useless on his tongue, but he felt the need to say them anyway. "Between your stories and Anders's, I feel like I knew these people. This is definitely a whiskey occasion. Good choice."

Tim saluted this statement with his glass.

"I guess it's a good thing you didn't go, Tim," Anton said. "We don't need to find a replacement First Enchanter so soon. But... and not to detract from the solemnity of the moment, but what does that mean for us?"

Cullen groped around for a third glass for Anton. "It means Most Holy has bigger things to worry about than keeping us in line. Ironically, this is just the break Kirkwall needed." He slammed the third glass onto the desk and sloppily poured a few fingers' worth. Artie wasn't even here, but Anton could feel him twitching.

"Maker's balls in a sling," Anton swore, wondering if he could've seen this coming, if there might've been some sign... But, there really wasn't anything. Negotiations between Orlais and Kirkwall were exactly like they'd been for twenty years, to judge by the papers in Dumar's old desk. And that was the thing -- he could only see as far as Kirkwall's interests. And he expected some things from Orlais -- you didn't grow up in Ferelden without an awareness of Orlesian 'mercy' and 'temperance'.

"This is not why I became a templar," Cullen muttered, resting his forehead on his glass. "None of this was what was supposed to happen. I thought we were good. I thought we were supposed to protect people. It's not just Kirkwall. It's not just a few bad eggs at Kinloch Hold. What are we even doing, any more?"

"I don't know if you're part of the 'we', any more, Commander," Tim said, quietly. "Or rather, the 'we' you mean is now 'them'."

"Don't let anyone hear you say that," Cullen grumbled. "They'll kill us all."

"And that would be the correct use of 'us'." Tim sipped his drink. "What's to come of the Circles, now? I can't imagine this will have gone over well with any of them. Speaking of killing us all, I can't help but wonder if this isn't a prelude to a mass-Annulment. This many Circles with no First Enchanter, at once? And all of them, as best I know, with their Knight-Commanders still intact, forgive me the presumptions, Commander."

Cullen didn't reply until he'd drained his glass again. His eyes crossed before focusing on Tim's face. "I think it's a prelude to a war, the kind where no one wins and everyone gets screwed, particularly the people who want nothing to do with it. You see what happened here in Kirkwall. Violence. Led to more violence. Until we stopped it. Who's going to stop it this time? The Divine? _Can_ she?" Cullen couldn't feel his lips or his cheeks but they kept moving. Anton's hand was so soothing in his hair. "They can order a mass-Annulment, but that will just unite the mages. Could they kill them quick enough?"

Tim looked a bit ill at the thought. Anton hoped it was just at the thought and not at the drink. The last thing Cullen needed was vomit over his important documents, even the ones he'd already spilled whiskey on.

Anton squeezed his arm. "Best not to jump to conclusions. Who knows how the Divine will handle this? How the mages will react? Still, we should prepare for the worst. If this does spark a war or a revolt, there's a chance we'll get some more refugees our way. The mages, at least. We've established ourself as a safe haven for them."

"A March, then." Cullen buried his face in his hands. "Tell your sister to get married before Starkhaven takes the excuse."

"Better I tell my sister to start preparing for the March. Do you have any idea how terrifying she really is? Circles were invented for mages like Bethany." Anton laughed and took a quick drink.

"Don't tell me that. Really," Cullen groaned, tipping his head against Anton's hand.

"I'd like to know we have more mages like that," Tim admitted, blinking at the glass in his hand, contemplatively. "The Circle was meant to house and train mages to fight the Blight. I can't think of anything better to hold off a March than people meant to fend off armies of darkspawn."

"He has a point," Cullen muttered, squinting at Tim. "You have a point, when you put it like that. How long can we hold them off? They're templars. They have ... a tactical advantage against a mage army."

"We're fortified," Anton reminded him, "and our mages don't need to be within reach. A thirty-foot sphere of flame in the sky is still going to fall if no-one's trying to hold it up. Plus? We've got chains in the strait."

Cullen nodded, looking reassured. "This is true. We just have to be on alert and make sure we will have sufficient warning should the worst occur. We just rebuilt this city. Again. We're not having a repeat of the Qunari attack, not from my-- not from them." He didn't know how he felt about that, making that distinction between himself and the rest of the Order, but Tim was right. It was a distinction that had to be made.

Anton hummed around his next drink. "My brother would kill me if we broke the city again after all his hard work, and I'm rather fond of not having a house that is on fire." He pulled Cullen's hand to him to press a kiss to the knuckles. "Maker knows we've gotten through enough disasters. We'll get through this one in one piece, or at least in large enough pieces that we can glue back them together."

* * *

* * *

The meeting of the Senior Enchanters of Kinloch Hold dragged on beyond the constant scratch of charcoal on paper. The sketchbook filled with page after page of mages shouting at each other. Rage. Fear. Greed. First Enchanter Irving was dead, and someone had to take his place. But, no one could find any written record of who he'd chosen as a successor, and he'd never spoken of it. He wouldn't have, of course -- that kind of thing caused disruptions and infighting. Wynne had always been a favourite, but now Wynne was dead, too. Of the Senior Enchanters from before the Blight, only Torrin remained, which might have made him an obvious choice, in a Circle less hesitant to even blink, in the wake of what seemed like chronic disaster.

"This tower is falling apart! How many mages can we lose in a decade!? We must choose a leader from among us, and to do that, we need candidates. We need people with the strength to lead!" Enchanter Torrin's deafening bellow silenced the table. "Now, how many of you think you can do that? How many of you are crazy enough to put yourself in the way of whatever just happened out there?"

The sketchbook snapped shut, and the elf holding it stood. "I will lead us. I am not afraid," Enchanter Fen'Din declared. "Put in my name for consideration. I hear the whispers in the stone, and I will be prepared, whatever comes."

Godwin sat back in his chair to better send an incredulous look the elf's way. "Please tell me you're joking. You are joking, right? No?"

"Why not?" asked the young apprentice to his left, his head on the table. "All Thedas has gone crazy, so why not us?"

"Because I thought we were trying to avoid future disaster, not make a habit of it!" Godwin looked around nervously, as though looking for another closet to hide in, should another battle come to them. "Personally, I vote for anyone who isn't blighted Fen'Din. I'd even vote for myself over Fen'Din, and that's not really something I'd recommend either."

"I wouldn't recommend it either," muttered Petra from further down the table. She tucked her red hair behind her ears and shrugged. "There really is only one logical choice."

"What, you think you can do a better job?" Godwin huffed.

"No, I wasn't talking about me."

"Fine," Godwin replied, standing up, "I'll do it. Put my name in. Someone has to oppose Enchanter Bugnuts, over here."

"Oh, shit no, Godwin." Petra leapt to her feet. "If he's in, I'm in! There's more to leadership than whatever nug-brained money-making scheme you have this week."

"And you, Torrin?" Fen'Din asked, amusement plain on his face. "Will you continue to stand for the just and equitable treatment for all mages in this implausible fiction of a prison?"

"We'll never get just and equitable treatment if you don't stop marching the rat army through the templar barracks at first bell!" Godwin snapped, annoyance reddening the tops of his cheeks.

"Don't play this game, Godwin. How are your friends in the Carta, this year?" Fen'Din smiled politely, as if his intent was anything other than a threat.

"Enough!" Torrin boomed, and the table fell silent before the most senior of Enchanters. "Yes, I will also offer my name. Despite the tragedy at the White Spire, we must move forward. This will bring us yet more unreasonable demands and restrictions from the templars, and my apologies to our own Knight-Commander, but he's just as trapped by the orders as we are. We have been put in a position which is designed for us to fail. If we submit, we will be crushed. If we fight, we will be overcome. But, it is time to hold a hard line -- liberation will not truly free us, even if we could win it, but we deserve the right to be treated as colleagues and equals, and not prisoners and criminals in waiting. As your First Enchanter, I would be your voice to that end. I would stand between the demands of templars who haven't shaken hands with a mage in thirty years and you, my friends and students."

Applause rang through the chamber. 

"What about you, Godwin?" A freshly-harrowed mage in the back asked. The room hadn't been designed to hold all of them, but this meeting was important enough not to be restricted to only the Senior Enchanters. "What'll you bring us?"

"Trade and prosperity," Godwin declared. "Queen Anora has been pushing the Banns toward greater acceptance of magical goods in the public sphere, and that can only mean good things for us, here. Why, in twenty years, we'll have merchants at the gates on the regular. People shaking our hands and asking after new magics to better serve them. And if we sell the right things to the right people, we'll make a tidy profit that we can use to restore all the damaged parts of this old tower. Five floors, hah! It was ten storeys tall, and with little spires to the sides, and if we have the funding, we can make that ours again!" He paused. "And bloody reasonable chairs that don't hurt your ass, for everyone."

That earned a scattering of chuckles and applause down the table, but Petra kept her arms folded across her chest. "Trade? Prosperity?" she said. "How can you promise that when our people are being killed? Trading magical goods and rebuilding the tower are all well and fine, but we have to look to our security first. Priorities, Godwin." She tipped her head respectfully in Torrin's direction. "I agree with Senior Enchanter Torrin in that changes need to be made, that we need to fight to be seen as equals and not prisoners. But..." She faltered for a moment, looking uncertain, before she squared her shoulders and tried again. "But I think we need to make a clean break from the Chantry. How much can we trust our templars to protect us? How do we know what happened at the White Spire won't happen again? What can we do to make sure it doesn't happen again? Adding a few floors to the tower and some cushions for our asses won't help in that regard."

That earned some muttered agreement and some more applause, as well as a scowl from Godwin.

"The secrets of this place are lost even to us -- what was it Solona found when she came back to save us? The 'Watchguard of the Reaching', turned to some horrific demon?" Fen'Din smiled indulgently. "They will come for us -- Torrin is right. But we have more choices than he sees. How many secrets can we reclaim before the word comes down that we will be tolerated no longer? How many of you will come to see this prison for the fiction it is, and let yourselves out through the walls that only seem solid? And yes, of course, we can fight with what we have or try to compromise, but there are so many things going on here, right under our noses and between our toes. What has been removed from the curriculum, because the meaning has been lost? What gifts have former Enchanters left hidden in the stone for us? At least one demon, that we know of. What else is caught in here, with us, and how can we use it to our advantage?"

"You're talking about blood magic and summoning demons," Petra snapped, jabbing a finger at Fen'Din, as a murmur ran through the crowd.

"I am advocating neither. However, we have centuries of Tevinter weapons beneath our feet, and none of us know how to use them. At the very least, if we insist on staying in this festering state of mind --" Fen'Din gestured at the walls around them. "-- let us be able to defend it!"

"She wants to defy the Chantry, and he wants to use Tevinter weapons," said one enchanter, her severe features making her look older than she actually was. "Is that what we're doing now? Following in the footsteps of the Imperium?"

Godwin nodded in agreement while Petra rolled her eyes. "That's twisting my words," she said. "And his. Fen'Din says we should defend ourselves, and on that point, we agree." She looked as surprised at that as anyone. "We need to be able to rely on ourselves, should the worst happen. We won't be like lambs to the slaughter if the Divine orders an Annulment."

That last word set off a few nervous murmurings, glances exchanged around the table.

"Those Tevinter artefacts are off-limits for a reason," Torrin cut in, jabbing the table with his index finger. "You fear the Chantry's axe swinging for our necks? Meddling in forbidden magic will make that a self-fulfilling prophecy. At this moment, tensions are high. We want to avoid suspicion, not arouse it."

"We could be pure as Chantry sisters and it would not matter," said Petra. "Like you said, tensions are high. I'm sure the Chantry's already suspicious."

"For a reason?" Fen'Din scoffed. "They've been 'off-limits' so long we don't know why we still have them. First Enchanter Irving admitted he had no idea what most of them were even for beyond what it says in the index -- something you and I both have access to. We have things that were preserved so they could save us from... something, but we don't know what and we don't know how to use them. It's ridiculous, and I, for one, have very little interest in remaining in some dreadfully contrary delusion that's going to spawn a war! Even if I _am_ dead. Even if none of it is real, it's not what I want from this place. Aren't we here to learn how to control our environment? To control ourselves? And yet, each generation teaches the next less than they themselves learnt, because it's dangerous. Not really a problem in my discipline, because you haven't had a necromancer in what, half a century, before I arrived? We have led ourselves, and I'm being terribly generous including myself with the lot of you, to the slaughter, and this really is our last opportunity to turn it aside."

"And you want to do that with _violence_." Torrin's sneer was so clear it was audible in the back of the room.

"Well, I certainly don't want to do it by bending over and taking what they're giving," Godwin cut in. "Isn't that what Anders was for?"

The look Torrin gave him was withering.

"I don't know," said one apprentice who had only met Anders a few times in passing. "From what I hear, even Anders has gotten tired of that." He made a sound like an explosion, trying to get a rise out of his friends.

"And that is not an example we will be following," Torrin snapped. "Such actions are what led us to this place to begin with!"

"'This place'," Godwin scoffed. "As though it's somehow worse than the way things already were. Sure, we've lost some great people since, but like you said, we're prisoners."

"At least we're talking about it now," said another mage, further down the table. Her voice was quiet, and she ducked her head when she noticed everyone staring at her. "I mean... things are _happening_."

Petra nodded. "Change comes at a high cost, but the right change is worth the cost."

"The right change is the kind that does not get anyone else killed," said Torrin. "None of us want to lose anyone else!"

"Of course not," Petra agreed, subdued. "I think that's something we all agree on."


	52. Chapter 52

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bethany attempts to address the infinite wedding invitations, amid a conversation with her older brothers.

The cards had been printed by the same house Varric used for his books, and Bethany studied the edges, to be sure they'd been cut properly. She pulled out one from the middle of the stack and tossed it into the bin beside her desk in the library. "Cut short on the left," she said, looking up at her brothers -- two of them, anyway. "I understand that we may have some unusual guests at my wedding. Your business partner and your Antivan paramour. But, as I've said, the more the merrier, and if Starkhaven's coffers can't handle it, well, all the less they'll have to bring down an invasion."

"You're really genuinely evil, Bethy." Anton nodded, admiringly, as he plucked a card off the top of the stack. "Don't get me wrong, I love it when you're evil, but you're still evil."

"Is it really evil, when it's in the public interest, Viscount?" Bethany smiled and batted her eyes.

Artie and Anton exchanged a look and answered in unison, "Yes." Artemis reached forward to neaten the stack of cards, squaring the edges and setting them parallel to the desk. He didn't have the heart to point out that one 'l' in her name looped more than the other, albeit by the tiniest fraction. Likely only he would notice anyway.

"Do you think it's wise, inviting my... paramour?" Artie asked with a furtive glance at Anton. He prayed his younger brother never knew just how true that word was. "It might not be safe for him there, considering... politics."

"Safe? Of course not," Bethy agree. "But you know he'd take offense if I didn't invite him."

Anton tweaked the stack again just to watch Artie scowl. "If my 'business partner' shows up in a wig and a curly moustache, I will disown him."

"Oh, I would pay to see that," Artemis said, neatening the stack again and moving it to the opposite side of the desk.

"Given those two, I hardly know what to expect, other than that it will be so horrifyingly tasteless that no one will care who they are as long as they don't stand close or act familiar." Bethany smothered a chuckle as she coughed into her hand. "We've already seen your business partner in the most amazingly pretentious Orlesian gown not on a member of the royal family."

"At least he looked good in it!" Anton protested, wondering why he was defending his brother's... whatever the fuck they were calling it, this year. The man could defend himself, if he decided to show up.

"You won't catch me arguing that point," Bethany agreed, after a moment's thought. "That was really spectacular. But, that's exactly the sort of thing I mean. If they show up masked, and we spend just enough time to show they're welcome -- that they belong -- who's going to think it? Especially if you do regard your paramour as a paramour, for the public. Someone will need to sit on Carver, of course. Or I could just not tell him and let him bolster the illusion with his complaints about parties not present."

"That is... you... lalala, all right? I don't want to hear you say these things." Anton winced and stuck a finger in his ear. "Carver's going to explode, if he figures it out. And you-- that's-- They're our brothers, Bethy, how can you even suggest that!?"

"It's just for show," Artemis reminded him before clearing his throat. "It's not like I'm going to be making out with him in front of the dessert table." He squinted at Bethany. "Right?"

"That, dear brother, depends on how much wine you have," Bethany said, batting her eyelashes.

Artemis's face reddened while Anton stuck his fingers in his ears and took up his 'lalala' mantra. Bethany plucked up a card from the stack and flicked it at Anton's nose, causing him to let go of his ears to catch it.

"Just be grateful Anders is only your 'business partner'," Bethany pointed out. "Though you're still welcome to make out with him in front of the dessert table too if you like."

Anton flicked the card back in her face. "See? Evil."

"Terribly," Artie agreed.

"I trust the two of you can handle inviting our dear friends? Those invitations shouldn't go out with the rest." Bethany stared at the piles of cards. "Are any of those Starkhaven clerks still hanging around the Gallows? Do you think I can pay one of them to address these for me? Or what about you, Artie? Have you picked up any of that ink and paper magic?" She eyed her brother pleadingly.

"Whatever you do, don't you dare put a pen in my hand," Anton declared, backing toward the door. "It'll fall off. Nobody ever told me politics involved more fingerwork than lockpicking and my husband combined."

"Please never bring up your husband's fingerwork again," Artie said, grimacing. "Or I'll talk some more about kissing my 'paramour'." As Anton readied to put his fingers in his ears again, Artie addressed Bethany. "And... no. That is not something you want me doing, not unless you want ink and envelopes everywhere. I certainly don't."

Bethany sighed, getting up to call for Bodhan. "I'll send a runner to the Gallows, then."

"Why don't you just print it in the Gazette? That's worked for everything else we've done," Anton suggested. "Send the cards to the people who are supposed to feel important."

"Yes, but, Anton?" Bethany smiled tiredly. "It's not a ball. It's my wedding. So, we have three hundred people who are supposed to feel important."

"Three... hundred?" Anton blinked owlishly at his sister.

"You're the viscount. You should know them." Bethany shook her head and put a hand on Anton's shoulder. "And this is why it's a good thing you were married before you became viscount. Royal weddings are nightmarish. I want a spell to inflict them on my enemies. New, in the school of Entropy: the Royal Wedding! Only for use in the most extreme circumstances. Truly, a forbidden magic for the good of all mankind."

"You always were the bravest of us, Bethy," Anton said, reaching across to pat her hand as though giving his condolences.

"Honestly, I'm less worried about the 'Royal Wedding' part," said Artie, "and more worried about the 'Hawke Wedding' part. We know how the last two went."

Anton huffed. "What was wrong with my wedding?"

Bethany and Artemis exchanged a look. "Nothing," said Bethy. "I'm sure it went exactly the way you planned."

"Mine, on the other hand..." Artemis shrugged, offering her a weak smile. "We won't need to torch any magisters this time, will we?"

"No, but there are a few dignitaries I wouldn't mind setting on fire. How evil would it be if I set Justice after them?"

Anton tilted his head to consider. "On a scale from Andraste to Tevinter magister, that would be a Hubert."

Bethany sighed. "What's the point of marrying a prince if I can't incinerate whomever I want?"

"Having a network that will just allow them to be incinerated, with the only proof a fistful of whispered rumours," Anton said, with a smile. "It's much cleaner. You can even make speeches about how truly sad and terrible it is."

"I could, but I don't want to. I'd rather make a speech about what a lovely day it is when no one is trying to imprison the mages, torment the elves, or murder my brothers, and that it's such a lovely day because I set the last person who tried _on fire_."

"This wedding must be getting to you," Anton sighed, pressing the back of his hand to Bethany's forehead. "You're starting to sound like Carver. I know you don't look a thing like him, but you're starting to sound like twins."

Bethany made a terribly disgruntled sound. "Honestly, if I didn't know better, I'd call this whole thing off and set _Sebastian_ on fire. But, he's really quite adorable, you know. And so sweet, even though he has no idea what's going on, half the time. I suppose I'd be sad, and we'd have no evidence that whatever mouthbreathing lump of flesh got put on the throne next wouldn't invade anyway. I might as well go through with it for my sake and yours. I wonder if Isabela will come visit me, so far up the river..."

"I will pretend she'd only be visiting you for pastry and tea," said Anton, his look just this side of manic.

"If that's what we're calling it now," Bethany said with a wink.

"Well, aside from tea, pastry, and whatever weird innuendo you're trying to make with them," Artie cut in, "let's just stick with _not_ incinerating people. Unless those people are magisters. But, especially not your husband-to-be. If Anders managed to avoid doing it all those years, I think you can too."

Bethany sighed, slumping forward to rest her chin on her arms. "Artie, darling, you look like me. Can't you shave and pretend to be me for a few weeks? We can trade places. No one will know."

"I think my husband might get suspicious."

"So? I've always wondered how far down those tattoos went."

In unison, Artemis and Anton pointed at her and said, "No."

Bethany pouted up at them. "You two are no fun. And no help." She sat back and shooed them away with a dramatic wave of her hand. "Be gone, then. Leave me to my suffering. Be sure to send those invitations."

"Be strong, sister-dear," Anton said, rounding the desk to kiss her cheek before taking his leave, shooing Artemis out ahead of him.


	53. Chapter 53

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian is useless at planning a wedding. Nathaniel brings in a professional.

"Sebastian, you can't just stay in here and expect your wedding to plan itself." Nathaniel sighed and leaned on the edge of the door.

"Don't I have advisors for that? No? Can I afford to hire some?" Sebastian slumped in his chair, still dressed in a manner that seemed halfway between what he'd worn as a lay brother and what he remembered his parents wearing, when he was young. More of his clothing was studded with gleaming white enamel, than gold. "I want to marry her. No. That's wrong. I want to be married to her. Why does it have to be this enormous rigmarole? Can't we just say we're passing up the wedding and donate the cost to the Chantry? Or some civic works project?"

"You're the Prince of Starkhaven, which is to say the most powerful single individual in the northern Marches, just as Bethany's brother is, in the south. If you don't do this, Ansburg and Tantervale are going to start questioning the truth of the rumours of recovery and your power as a leader." Nathaniel ran a hand through his hair. "It's like my father used to say -- you have a big wedding so you can remind your subjects that you deserve the best and your peers that you can get the best."

"Why couldn't I just have stayed in the Chantry?" Sebastian groaned, tipping his head back over the low back of the chair.

"If you'd stayed in the Chantry, you wouldn't be getting married at all, which would probably be worse for you, but better for me." Nathaniel snorted in amusement. "You'd be polishing Andraste's ankles in the Grand Cathedral, or something, and I'd still be a Warden. Doing Warden things."

Sebastian sighed at the ceiling. "And I wouldn't be with Bethany, which is, I suppose, what counts. And it is a good thing too, since she's much better at all this political posturing than I am." He ran a hand over his forehead, thumb and forefinger rubbing circles in his skin. "And that, my friend, is why you should be asking her about the wedding planning. I am sure whatever decisions she would make would be superior to my own."

Some days, the man was useless, and Nathaniel tried not to let his exasperation show, even if he did agree with Sebastian in this instance. He was right. Bethany really was much better at this sort of thing.

"You can't just pawn it all off on her, Vael."

"Why not?" Sebastian grumbled. "Isn't that what princes do? Delegate?"

"Weak rulers pass everything off on their spouses. No one will say anything now that he's died a hero... sort of... but you should've heard the things that went around about King Cailan. It's how Anora ended up queen, in the end. Everyone knew she'd been doing his job for five years already." Nathaniel shook his head. "Image, Vael. Image. You're starting from a bad place, after what happened to your family and then what happened to your city, and you have to keep up that image of command and control, but without becoming utterly unapproachable. And don't look at me. I never got the hang of it."

Sebastian flailed at the bell rope, thinking to ring for coffee with a shot of brandy, but that involved a great deal more sitting up than he meant to do, right then. "You sound like you have a plan, anyway."

"Of course I have a plan. But, my plans are the plans of a man who tried to drunkenly sack a Warden fortress in the middle of the night. On the other hand, I still think they're better than your plans."

"You never stop, do you?"

"Not for a second." Nathaniel crossed his arms. "I've brought in Lady Cousland, who is not your wife-to-be, and can be considered a 'helpful friend'. There will be some rumours, since she's Fereldan, but she's also my fiancée, which should cut that down a bit, or so Jenet tells me. And what you are going to do is pay whatever bills she hands you. I gather that not being teyrna has left her a great deal of time to study fashions, politics, and who to hire for the best of both, for something like this. She's very good at what she does. Fergus wouldn't be half the teyrn without her."

Sebastian levered himself up a little at that, eyeing Nathaniel appraisingly if hopefully. "Lady Cousland?" He nodded. "I do not care if she is Fereldan, so long as she knows what she's doing. It would, at the very least, be good to meet her finally. I have heard so much about her, after all."

Nathaniel noted that Sebastian looked instantly more cheerful now that he knew he was more or less off the hook with this wedding planning nonsense.

* * *

  
Today the weather was beautiful in Starkhaven, the sky a cloudless and sunlit blue, and Bethany planned to enjoy it, sitting out on the balcony with her newest acquaintance, their tea balanced on the rail as they peered down at the courtyard. She had her fan unfurled and covering her chuckles as Elissa pointed out someone else passing below them.

"Why, hello, Ser Tight-Britches," Elissa said, cheeks dimpling as she grinned over her tea. She pressed two fingers to her lips and let out a wolf-whistle. The man below jumped, twirling as he looked around, trying to find the source of the sound.

"I, ah, that is..." Jenet finally thought to look up, bowing hastily as he recognised the dress of the ladies above him, if not which ladies they were. "Lovely day, ladies!" He glanced around the courtyard, expecting them to be talking to anyone but him -- not that he wasn't accustomed to this sort of thing from Lady Frisshell's friends, but here in the royal palace he'd never been accosted in this fashion. And the more he thought about it, the more he began to suspect it was because the prince was the bigger prize and Nathaniel was the next best thing. Grey Wardens, it was said, had their advantages.

"Well, hello, serah!" Bethany called out, fluttering her fingers. "Who might you be? I'm afraid I haven't been here long enough to learn all the names!"

The accent... Fereldan vowels, but firmly Kirkwall, the rest of the way through. Oh, Maker, that couldn't be... But, he had his own surprise. "Jenet, my lady. Jenet Cavin, a scholar." He wouldn't ask. If she wanted him to know, she'd tell him. Asking just meant putting himself in a position where not telling him could be scored. He knew how the game was played.

"Cavin?" Bethany blinked at Elissa, and then looked back down. "Any relation to Bran?" If he was Bran's brother, he'd be well out of range for both of them. Bran was old enough to be their father, even if he still looked no older than Cormac.

"His son, my lady." Jenet bowed again, but far more shallowly. One point for him.

"Ah yes, I can see the resemblance," Bethany said, with another appreciative look at Jenet's tight trousers and a quick wink at Elissa. And then she remembered Nathaniel's letters and his mentions of Bran's son and realised her friend had just wolf-whistled at Kirkwall's new ambassador to Starkhaven. She fluttered her fan at Elissa, eyebrows raised, and reached for her tea.

Elissa hummed into her own tea, craning her neck to get a better look at the man over the railing. "If there's a resemblance, your father must be a handsome man, indeed. Nathaniel failed to mention just how handsome, in his letters. I fear I have been slighted by the man's limited powers of description."

Jenet flushed, feeling wrong-footed, though he suspected he knew who the second lady was, now. "I do not believe Messere Howe is as appreciative of my charms, my lady. Perhaps prolonged proximity has made him immune." Soft laughter from above said he had earned another point.

"Perhaps," said Elissa, an amused glint in her eye.

"I have heard exposure often softens his objections and hardens his intentions," Bethany offered, over her teacup. "Or so I heard from another Warden."

Jenet wondered if he ought to be standing there at all for this part of the conversation, but whatever came next couldn't possibly be as bad as the Orlesian disease rumours that still plagued Nathaniel. He supposed that one way to ensure Messere Howe's fidelity. "With ladies as lovely as yourselves, I doubt his troubles are objections so much as inattention. A blindness to anything less lovely."

"Ah! Jenet! Just the man I was looking for!" Nathaniel called out, stepping into the courtyard. "Whose daughters have you turned your charms on, today?" As he drew closer, he looked up, the sun blocked out by a tower, and froze. "Oh, come, love! Do stop tormenting the boy! I can't leave you alone for five minutes, even in the royal palace of Starkhaven, in the company of the Princess-consort? Maker's breath, you're as bad as the Commander!"

"Oh, I can be much worse than Commander Amell," Elissa reminded him, raising her teacup to hide her lips as she spoke to Bethany. "No offence to you, my dear, but your cousin has less bite and more punch."

"It runs in the family," Bethany assured her.

"How many years have we been together? If I didn't know that by now, I'd be a very stupid man, and unless your taste has changed in the last months, you're not interested in stupid men." Nathaniel laughed and dropped a protective arm across Jenet's shoulders.

Jenet stared blankly at the arm draped over his shoulders. Thinking over Bethany's words, that blank look shifted to one of growing horror as he ducked out from under Nathaniel's grip. "I... er. Excuse me, ladies, Messere Howe. I have an appointment with a rather impatient comtesse, and I fear I'm running late." 

Jenet offered the ladies a quick bow before making his retreat, feeling Nathaniel's puzzled stare on his back until he disappeared around the corner.

"See?" Nathaniel called up to the ladies, folding his arms across his chest. "Now you've gone and traumatized the poor boy."

Bethany fanned her face, cheeks red from holding in her laughter, as she and Elissa exchanged conspiratory glances. 

"Nate, darling, I don't think we were the ones doing the traumatising," Elissa said, batting her eyelashes at him over the railing.

"What are you on about, woman? Are you starting terrible rumours again?"

"Now, now, Nathaniel, you know I only start the best rumours." Elissa blithely sipped from her cup. "Care to join us for tea?"


	54. Chapter 54

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kirkwall's alienage celebrates the opening of the new library of elven history and literature.

The building stood as tall as any of the houses around it, but it backed up against the park that faced the water, tall statues in the shape of some that Theron knew still stood on the Dales wrapped around the corners. The heavy, iron doors were embossed with the symbol of Dirthamen, as had been passed on through generations of storytellers in the Sabrae clan, and behind them, vaults filled with shelves and reading tables. Oddly, the building had no windows, but Kalli had insisted, when Theron proposed the design to Merrill and Reeba. A library with no windows would be harder to burn out, and in the alienage, that was always a concern.

But, for the first time, the elves of Kirkwall had a place to store their stories. No more passing the story of Shartan, writ small on half-sheets. Now there were four copies of 'A Slave's Life' shelved in a section that would be dedicated to historical elves of Tevinter.

Today, for the first time, the doors would be opened to the elves of Kirkwall. Theron had come down to present the alienage with a gift from his clan -- well, from himself and Paivel, really -- a book of all the legends they knew, written in both Elvish, on one side, and Common, on the other. The next Arlathvhen, Theron thought, he'd make the request that other storytellers consider sending their histories to Kirkwall. Maybe they could start a college of elven studies. Or, maybe he was getting ahead of himself.

"Isn't it beautiful, lethallin?" Merrill asked, positively glowing with pride. Who knew they could have this, a beautiful building for their beautiful stories, in an alienage that was clean and elegant and everything that city elves were not supposed to have?

"It's not bad," Theron said, his vallaslin shifting with his smile. He wrapped an arm around Merrill's shoulders and squeezed her companionably. "I say we can gloat a little."

"Only a little?" Merrill teased.

"You have a point. We'll gloat a lot."

Merrill giggled and nudged Theron's side with her elbow, only for him to squeeze her closer, the arm around her shoulders moving up to wrap around her neck. She squeaked and squirmed, ducking out from under his armpit.

"Now, is that how you treat a noblewoman?" Hahren Reeba clucked, teasing, as she came up beside the pair. The library was the alienage's jewel, but many of its shelves were still bare. She prayed she lived long enough to see it overflowing.

"It most certainly is," Theron agreed, with a grin. "She used to be our First, and I don't think I treated her any different, then. That's practically a Dalish noble, right Merrill?"

Merrill shrugged. "We don't really have nobles, but I might have become the Keeper, one day."

"You're the Keeper of a different clan, now." Theron elbowed her, still smiling, as he pulled the thick volume from his pack, offering it to Reeba. "From our storytellers to yours. One hahren to another. It's everything Paivel and I know about Dalish history, since the fall of Arlathan."

Reeba took the book carefully, with both hands. "We all came from the same place, once, and I hope this can serve as a reminder. Maybe we'll never know all the stories, but I hope we can learn enough to make a difference. To give us something to work toward, instead of just to mourn the loss of."

"Once our people lived in cities, with spires of stone up to the sky, magic shaping every moment, and not a one of them to die, until the cities fell." Theron gestured around him. "It seems like we're starting at the end and working our way back up, as we once did on the Dales. First the cities, then the magic, and then we'll worry about living forever."

"I'm not sure how many of us would want you to live forever," Merrill teased, tugging at his ear. "But the rest, I am in favour of."

"Perhaps while you are here, you could read a story to us, or at least to the children," Reeba said, cradling the book reverently to her chest. "They do so love Merrill's stories, and you are always so good with them."

Theron dipped his head. "That is because, as my wife says, I am like an overgrown child myself."

"He means 'yes'," Merrill said, rolling her eyes. "Though now the children will be able to read his silly stories whenever they -- oh." She caught the sad look that crossed Reeba's face. "Oh dear. Am I assuming things I should not be?"

"Few of the children can read more than a few words," Reeba said, which Merrill supposed she'd noticed, though she had never stopped to think about it. "And the same goes for their parents."

"Oh." Merrill frowned up at the beautiful building and suddenly felt foolish. "Well, then we will have to fix that, or what use is such a pretty library?"

"I'd offer," Theron said, shrugging, "but Natia and I are still working on the archive on the mountain. That and we've got a dozen kids of our own that Paivel's trying to teach. The Tevinter ones keep looking at him like he's trying to get them in trouble. Which is wrong. That would be me, not Paivel."

"What are you teaching them now, Theron?" Merrill rolled her eyes again. "Are you telling stories about Andruil, again?"

Theron pointed to his face. "What else would I be doing? What, would you rather I told stories about Fen'Harel, may his feet never touch the ground here?"

Reeba looked confused. "Isn't Andruil the goddess of hunters? I don't...?"

"Andruil had some... unusual tactics, at times. At least that's what the stories tell us." Merrill shrugged, looking around the room. "But, I suppose if Theron tells enough stories, the children here will want to read, so they can have those stories when he's not here, too."

"See? I have my uses." Theron beamed, throwing his arms out wide.

"Every now and then," Merrill replied. She chewed her lip as she considered. "I do not know if I would have the patience to teach, but I could try."

"They'll need you to learn Elvish," Theron said, nodding. "But, surely there are others..."

"I can help," said Reeba. "At least to get them started. There are some of us who learned more than the basics for our jobs. Education and a library... our children will grow up with more than we had, which is as it should be."

"So we can go back to gloating?" Theron suggested.

"We can go back to gloating," Reeba agreed.


	55. Chapter 55

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian has a terrible confession and a worse plan. Nathaniel is not amused.

Nathaniel wasn't in public. In fact he wasn't even in his dubiously private office. He was in his suite, lounging about in his smalls with a pot of warm spiced wine, and few cares outside how pleasant the warm stone of the hearth felt against his back. There would be a wedding, soon, and then, after a few more months, maybe he could go back to Amaranthine. Lady Amell could keep her own husband in check, and he could return to plotting his own wedding against the long-held traditions of Weisshaupt. A nice quiet affair, he thought, maybe held in the chapel at Castle Cousland.

And then someone was rapping at his door, and every ounce of good nature ran out of him, as he sat up. "For the love of Andraste, what?" he barked at the door, dragging himself to his feet and snatching up a sincerely ridiculous dressing gown from where it hung on a statue of one of the disciples. If it was Elissa, she'd be expecting at least that. If it was anyone else, maybe they'd just leave before he got to the door.

"Howe... I need to ask a favour..." Sebastian's voice was small, barely audible through the door.

Nathaniel closed his eyes and prayed for strength. He didn't know why he bothered. It wasn't like the Maker ever answered his prayers, or if he did, it was only with a terrible sense of humour. He opened the door enough to see Sebastian's face, his posture as diminished as his voice had been.

"I promise nothing until I know the nature of the favour," Nathaniel said, finally taking pity enough to step aside, beckoning Sebastian in.

"That is... probably wise," Sebastian agreed reluctantly. He stepped into Nathaniel's suite, arms across his chest as though he were hugging himself. 

Nathaniel eyed his posture. "Is this a wine conversation?"

"What? Oh. I... shouldn't." Even as he said as much, Sebastian inched closer to the wine and made sad eyes at Nathaniel until the Warden rolled his eyes and poured a cup for him.

"You should. If I plan on drinking through this conversation, you might as well too."

"If you insist," Sebastian said before gulping down half his drink all at once.

"Uh." Nathaniel steered him into a seat by the hearth. The last thing he needed was the idiot prince drinking himself into a stupor and collapsing in front of the fireplace. "Exactly what kind of favour are you planning on asking me?"

"You and Elissa... I mean, you... have some familiarity with women, don't you?" Sebastian asked, awkwardly.

"I'm all of thirty-nine years old, Vael. I should hope I'd be familiar with women, by now. I have a sister, too." Nathaniel blinked at Sebastian and poured himself some more wine. This was going to be long and complicated, he was sure. And it probably involved something Elissa had said -- Maker, he hoped Elissa hadn't started flirting with Sebastian, of all people.

"No, I mean... Not like your sister." Sebastian's face might have reddened, but it might've been the light of the fire on his cheeks. "That is... I have a wedding. Which will be followed by a wedding night. And I'm not sure how to... well... Does she just sleep in my bed, after that? Is that all there is to it?" He sounded hopeful.

Nathaniel groaned and squeezed his eyes shut. "What about you? Didn't I hear you were out in the streets consorting with prostitutes, before you got sent to Kirkwall?"

"Consorting. Yes." Sebastian shrugged and shifted uncomfortably. "I'd sneak out and tell them stories about being a prince, which I wasn't yet, and they'd laugh and tell me I was terribly cute. Sometimes they'd kiss me on the cheeks, before they made me go home."

Nathaniel choked out a laugh and then choked down some wine. Of all the ways he could have spent the evening, this was not one option he would have considered. "And after you entered the Chantry...? No sneaking away for wild evenings that would shock and horrify the Grand Cleric?"

"What? Of course not!" Sebastian looked scandalised at the very thought, one hand clutching his chest.

"Don't look so horrified. A night or two like that might have saved you the need of coming here."

Sebastian's lips pressed thin, red washing over his face. Nathaniel had never seen the man -- or any man -- blush quite so hard. "I took my duties very seriously, and I do not regret them," Sebastian said through his teeth.

"I know," Nathaniel sighed, slumping in his seat and swirling the wine in his glass. "But, really, you don't need to be so nervous. Even if you have no idea what you're doing, Bethany strikes me as..." How did he say this without accidentally offending Sebastian? "...as a woman who knows what she wants. And likes. Just... you know, talk to her. She'll keep you from doing anything too stupid."

"Stupid," Sebastian huffed.

"At half your age, it's cute," Nathaniel said, shrugging. "At your age, it's stupid. Except that you're a Chantry brother, which by some bizarre combination of things I don't understand apparently makes it dead sexy, or that's what any number of trashy Orlesian novels would have one believe."

"This is ridiculous," Sebastian protested, sipping his wine, folding into himself to cut a smaller silhouette in the chair. "I can't possibly do this. I -- I haven't rejected my vows! I'm still devoted to Andraste's word!"

"Then you can't get married, either." Nathaniel eyed the small pot of wine, knowing there wouldn't be enough for another glass. He contented himself with a large swallow, not quite finishing his drink. "And you're not still a brother. You can't be. You're the Prince of Starkhaven, and it's not allowed, or you'd have been back here the instant you heard your parents were killed."

"Got me there," Sebastian admitted. "Still doesn't feel like I've given it up."

"You'll serve the Maker in a different way, now, right? Help to ensure the strength of the Marches against Orlais and Tevinter? It's a whole different game, now that it's about real people and not just philosophy."

"Doing the work of the Maker by protecting the Marches against Orlais -- it sounds blasphemous, but I know you're right. The Grand Cathedral may be in Val Royeaux, but the city has its own sins. Who knows where the Empress's eye will land." Sebastian rubbed his face and stared into the fire. "Of course, I hear she's got her own problems, now, with that rebellion in Halamshiral and whatever it is the Grand Duke thinks he's doing."

"Not your wife, I can assure you of that, although he might change his mind if he ever met her," Nathaniel joked.

Sebastian's laugh came out at a higher register than it should. "Well, then he's welcome to... fulfill my wedding night duties." He grumbled into his wine, or what was left of his wine.

"Yes, that would be a wonderful way of causing international scandal and making yourself the laughing stock of the Orlesians. If even the Orlesians are mocking you, you know you have a problem."

"On the contrary, the Orlesians mock everyone," Sebastian said, his body one sagging, sullen line in Nathaniel's chair.

"Really, Vael," Nathaniel said, steeling himself with another sip before continuing, "do you... not find her attractive? Is that it?" He'd heard some scandalous rumours about Sebastian drunkenly flirting with Bethany's brother and had to wonder.

"I think she's simply the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. How could I not? You've seen her."

Yes. Yes, Nathaniel had. He wouldn't say she was the _most_ beautiful woman, not when he thought of Elissa and how soft her skin felt against his, but beautiful was certainly the correct adjective. "Well. That's good, then. If you'd said otherwise, I would have doubted your sanity. Or at least your eyesight."

Another nervous laugh, and Sebastian looked so much younger with his eyes so wide and terrified. He was like a nervous teenager, the poor fool.

"So, you think she's beautiful, too..." Sebastian's eyes took on a calculating look as he turned them on Nathaniel. "What about you? We're about the same size, aren't we? The noblewomen of Starkhaven certainly think you're handsome."

"You cannot possibly be saying what I'm hearing, so I'm just going to listen to the lovely crackling of the fire. Isn't it soothing?" Nathaniel looked away, picking up the poker in his free hand and jostling the logs a bit. Still, the offer was tempting, but only if it came from Bethany.

"Oh, come on. She's beautiful and it's something you obviously enjoy doing. I just... I'm not ready for this!" Sebastian pulled his knees up, realised he'd put his boots on the edge of an extremely expensive chair his father had paid for, and dropped his feet to the ground again.

"I'm not sleeping with your wife unless she asks me to, and if she does, I'm telling her you've already given me permission," Nathaniel warned, still looking at the fire. "You know that if you marry her, but you won't go to bed with her, she's going to take lovers, and they might not be me."

"I'm fairly sure she already has," Sebastian admitted. "But, I was a Chantry brother. It wasn't for me to ask anything else of her."

"You have to tell her." Nathaniel looked back from the fire. "I'm sure she's expecting that on her wedding night, she'll get to unwrap her new husband, unmarred by anyone else's sticky fingers, and do things I don't really ever want to hear about you doing. And if that's not what she's getting, you need to tell her that. It's not the kind of thing you should be surprising her with. I've heard of the lengths noblewomen go to, to ensure the perfect wedding night, and she's going to have to adjust her plans so it's actually an enjoyable evening for both of you, and she doesn't wind up spending three hours getting into some complicated Orlesian nightwear that you can't even look at her in."

Sebastian nodded, though he looked like he might be ill. Nathaniel hoped it wasn't from the wine.

"You're overthinking this, Vael," Nathaniel said, reaching across to clap a hand on his shoulder. Now he was thinking about Elissa in complicated Orlesian nightwear, and those weren’t the sort of thoughts he wanted to be having while Sebastian was in the room. "Finish your wine, get some rest, and talk to her in the morning. Or, conversely, finish your wine, go talk to her, and get some rest. I don't care about the order. Just _talk to her_."

For a moment, Nathaniel worried that Sebastian was going to ask him to do that for him too, but instead the man nodded, visibly swallowing. He drained his cup and handed it back. "I... thank you, Howe. This is a difficult subject for me."

"Not just you," Nathaniel muttered, softly enough that Sebastian didn't quite make it out. Rising, Nathaniel ushered Sebastian to the door.

Nathaniel finished his own wine and waited for the sound of footsteps to fade down the corridor. He set the empty cups on the corner of the writing table and checked the grate before the fire, making sure there wouldn't be any accidents if he just let it burn. Which was exactly what he meant to do. Before he could give it another moment's thought and talk himself out of the idea, he tightened the belt on his dressing gown -- still ridiculous, but quite warm -- and slipped out into the hall, heading in the opposite direction from Sebastian. Perhaps, he'd be lucky, tonight, and Elissa wouldn't be entertaining some other poor fool.

His luck held, and many hours later, as he heard the knights stirring with the dawning light, he remembered the one thing he'd forgotten to take with him, in his midnight venture -- his clothes. And as the castle woke around him, he debated just not returning to his room until they'd all gone back to bed, and whether it would be worse to be caught dashing down the halls in that utterly tacky dressing gown, or in nothing but his smalls. Oddly, he thought the latter might invite less comment.

Still, that was a concern for later. He wasn't in Amaranthine, and there was no reason for him to be up at this hour, except for the beautiful woman in his arms, and she'd already fallen asleep.


	56. Chapter 56

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jenet makes last-minute arrangements for the wedding guests. Bethany and Elissa have opinions about men's fashion.

It was fortunate that Starkhaven was such a large city, and had been, for so long, such a prosperous and important one. The guests began to arrive the week before the wedding, and three inns filled up at once, between the nobles from across the Marches and their attendants. Royal families, of course, would stay in the palace, along with Bethany's relations, but the size of a royal contingent kept them from offering space in the palace to anyone of lesser rank. It was, all told, a common problem in Marcher cities, and no one was terribly offended.

Bethany was shouting across the room to the elves hanging the frame for what would be a massive floral arrangement, at the end of the week, when Jenet arrived with the latest messages.

"Sorry, I've got more last-moment cancellations. I don't know how Nathaniel ended up with them, but they're clearly yours." Jenet offered the letters. "There's one in there from Empress Celene. More than just the usual apologies, I think. Most of these are Orlesian, but that's hardly surprising, given the situation in Orlais. No one's comfortable going on holiday, until the Grand Duke calms down and stops making trouble. And there's luggage? I wasn't expecting anything to come down from Minrathous, considering we already have Magister Tilani's suite arranged, but the labels say you're expecting it? From a Messere Kestrel, who I gather is your older brother's paramour?"

Bethany brightened at the name. As much as she enjoyed being treated like royalty, Bethany still missed her brothers, particularly the one brother she hadn't seen in a couple of years. "Ah! Messere Kestrel! He is always a delight. Artie will be so excited to know he's on his way!"

Jenet nodded decisively, glad, at least, that the baggage was accounted for. "Shall I have his luggage sent to the suite adjoining your brother's then?"

"That might be the least scandalous solution, yes," Bethany said, eyes twinkling.

"What's this about scandal?" Elissa called out as she crossed the room to Bethany, as though the word 'scandalous' had summoned her. She made a point of dragging her eyes over Jenet, who cleared his throat and focused a little too intently on the room's crown moulding.

"We were just discussing how to avoid it, Elissa," Bethany informed her, carding through the letters Jenet had handed her.

"Now why on earth would you do that?"

"I'd greatly prefer my husband actually survive the week, so I can enjoy his many benefits, in the aftermath of this event. You know how he is about scandal." Bethany rolled her eyes and laughed, handing a letter to Elissa. "Oh, that looks like the seal of Grand Duke de Chalons! Wait wait! I have Empress Celene's right here. I know neither of them will be here, but I wonder if they'll each blame the other."

"Gaspard can soak his head in a bucket of horse piss," Elissa declared, unfolding the letter she'd been handed. "His fame and fortune are almost entirely because he's the Empress's cousin. I rather like her. She's done well for herself in a court full of rabid lapdogs, nipping at each others' tails. And she hasn't threatened to invade -- if anything she's been much too kind, really, in the wake of the Blight. It's suspicious, but at least it's an interesting kind of suspicious, and not the usual Orlesian expansionist nonsense."

"Oh, this is very sweet, you're right!" Bethany read down the letter. "Ah! Here! 'I would love to welcome you and your family to the upper eschelons of Thedas, but I'm afraid I need to attend my poor cousin. His tantrums are getting more dangerous as time goes on. I'm afraid we may need to send him off to the country-house for a few months, if this keeps up. You have a large family, I've heard. I'm sure you understand how it gets, sometimes.'" Bethany chuckled. "I do like the way she writes. She does seem to be quite flippant about the Grand Duke, though. I hope it's just an act."

"She's not a fool to have lasted as long as she has, there." Elissa looked down at the letter she held. "Ah, he's 'saving the nation from the irresponsible policies of his mad cousin and the malfeasance of her court'. That's why he won't be here. He wishes you the best of luck, et cetera -- oh, wait, no. He wishes Sebastian the best of luck. This one's not even addressed to you."

"Implying he's the one who needs all the luck?" Bethany said, holding her letters as though they were one of her fans. "Clearly he hasn't been to Starkhaven in a while. Pumpkin!" She fluttered the letters at Sebastian, who was busy looking over a ledger a servant had brought him but looked up at at Bethany's voice. "Did you hear? Empress Celene sends her regards. As does the Grand Duke, who also wishes you the best of luck."

"Ah, clearly he must know the sort of family I'm marrying into," Sebastian teased, tucking the ledger under his arm to kiss her cheek and to take the letter Elissa was holding out to him. "I imagine the Orlesians are going to be underrepresented."

"At least that means the wine will last longer," Jenet suggested.

"Not with my brothers there," Bethany cheerfully replied, counting off the number of people sending their regrets as she sifted through them. Maker knew there would still be plenty of people, and they might end up needing the extra space.

"Your brothers are all heavy drinkers?" Jenet asked, considering the letters his father sent from Kirkwall. "I thought it was just the Viscount."

"Unless things have changed in the weeks since I left, the Viscount doesn't drink half as much as the second-oldest. I don't think anyone other than Wardens can drink what he does."

"That's a talent!" Elissa exclaimed. "And he's got a paramour, too? I remember he's married, isn't he? Or is that the oldest?"

"The day the oldest gets married, the Maker will return to overturn the foolishness of man." Bethany chuckled behind the fan of letters. "No, that's the second. He's married and collects paramours like some men collect Serault glass, actually. Never a dull night in his house, I'm sure, and yet another reason I'm glad he moved out before all that started. The Antivan is recent, though. Just the last couple of years. He's from some up and coming merchant family trying to get a break trading in the Anderfels. Importing directly to Kassel without going through Tallo or Hossberg. I hope he's got the will and the strength to oppose the Carta, or my brother's going to end up very disappointed."

"Doesn't the Viscount have an investor from the Anderfels? One he's invited? How lovely. Perhaps your other brother will end up with another paramour for his collection," Elissa teased. "And what about the oldest? Is he coming for the wedding?"

Sebastian's lips thinned at the mention of Cormac, but he wisely said nothing. For her part, Bethany faked looking regretful but resigned rather convincingly. "Alas, no. After what happened in Kirkwall, I'm afraid he simply disappeared. I had nowhere to send his invitation!"

"I had heard about that," Jenet said sombrely. "My father mentioned something... There is still no news?"

"Nothing from Cormac," Bethany answered. She leaned a little into Sebastian, who tucked the letter in his hand under his ledger and wrapped an arm around her waist. "But it's probably for the best. If I knew where he was, I would track him down and beat him with a shoe for running off like that."

Elissa chuckled, looking a bit strained. "As a true sister should. At this point, I'm surprised Fergus doesn't have a permanent imprint of my shoe on his behind."

Jenet was glad he had no sisters. 

Sebastian had finally come to believe that Anders had left Kirkwall -- he'd been a hero to so many people, and with how fast things had happened, that day, whoever had helped him wouldn't have known he'd done anything wrong. Of course, whoever had helped him was probably Cormac, who'd been right there, and had also disappeared, most likely with help from Isabela -- also missing. Of course, so was Varric, at this point, but Varric had said something about taking a holiday in Antiva, before he'd fallen off the world, so the Maker only knew what had happened to him. His elves continued to maintain his estate, Sebastian had heard, and they insisted he was coming back and there was nothing to worry about.

"Should I be glad I'm marrying the only sister in your family?" he asked, finally, after another moment glaring bitterly into space. "That I won't be inheriting any sisters who will beat me with their shoes?"

"I don't know if I'd say no sisters," Bethany said, with a smile. "There's always Fenris's sister, Varania. I've heard she's thinking of moving up to Sundermount to get a little closer to that Dalesman of hers, but don't think that'll stop her from taking a boat up here to smack you with a shoe, if she disapproves."

Sebastian put a hand to his chest in mock horror. "I suppose I had best not give her a reason to, then!"

"That fear is healthy," Bethany assured him. "Though save the worst of your fear for my brothers, should they disapprove." Her smile was wicked and the opposite of reassuring.

"Oh, I am already aware of your brothers and their... proclivities. At least now they'll have quite a bit more distance to cross before they can bring their wrath to bear."

"Indeed." Bethany patted his arm. "Oh! And speaking of my brothers and their proclivities... Jenet, perhaps we should put Messere Kestrel and my brother's entourage in Empress Celene's suite instead? That should give him and my brother and brother-in-law more privacy, and there are some activities I'm sure some of our other guests could do without hearing."

Sebastian's cheeks coloured at the thought as he tried not to picture it.

"Of course, Messere," said Jenet, bowing his head politely. "I will go see to that."

As Jenet turned away, Elissa leaned to the side to watch him walk toward the doors. "Some days, I wish I could justify it. I should find a way." She laughed and smiled rakishly.

"Oh, you absolutely should," Bethany encouraged her. "I know how much you enjoy that raw Fereldan sulk, but this is one of the Cavins! Have you met his father? The man doesn't look a day older than my oldest brother! And the things I have heard..." Her eyebrow arced up. Actually, she hadn't heard much, other than that Bran enjoyed the occasional political event, at which he could drink far too much and mutter utterly obscene things about the other guests to Serendipity. "I am curious how much like his father he really is."

"That raw Fereldan sulk is terribly endearing, but so is Serah Cavin's tight little bottom. Look at those trousers and how short he wears his tunic! There ought to be a law!" Elissa fanned herself with one hand.

"A law that he should wear them shorter," Bethany agreed, patting Sebastian's bottom. "And you, my dear? Once we're married, and I've stolen your virtue, will you wear your tunics short?"

The splotchy pink on Sebastian's cheeks turned into a more uniform red. He cleared his throat, subtly shifting his ass away from her hand, to Bethany's eternal disappointment. "I will not pass a law about it," was his non-answer. "And I think my tunics are a perfectly reasonable length as they are." 

It occurred to Sebastian that Jenet's departure had left him alone with Elissa and Bethany, and Sebastian found himself looking around for Nathaniel in the hopes that the man could save him.

Elissa and Bethany exchanged glances, and Elissa clicked her tongue. "I disagree," she said. "That length is perfectly unreasonable. It should be a foot shorter, at least."

"A _foot_?" Sebastian stammered. "That would show more than my... _bottom_."

"Oh, I don't know. That sounds reasonable to me!" Bethany plucked at Sebastian's tunic, starting to fold it up over his belt so that it hung shorter.

Sebastian squeaked and tried to wriggle out of her reach, but there were two of them to contend with.


	57. Chapter 57

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guests begin to arrive for the wedding. Certain parties are thoroughly enamoured of this fact and the guests.

The sky over Starkhaven was a dark grey as the storm rolled down the river, pelting rain at the travellers on the river road. But, the two camels didn't slow at all, as their riders pressed onward, through the city gate and up the broad merchants' road as far as the market, where they finally slowed and cut around the edge, heading toward the gate of the palace.

"We have come," said one of the riders, his face still covered by the hood that kept off the rain, which had substantially dampened the cushions of his saddle, "for the wedding of Bethany Hawke, the Lady Amell of Kirkwall. We are expected."

"I think the Cock's Feather by the old mage tower still has rooms," the guard said, gesturing back toward the city, rain sluicing off his helmet as he looked up.

"You misunderstand. We are _expected_." The rider's Antivan accent became even thicker. "I expect you do not want to have to tell your prince you have ruined the trade agreement with one of the fastest rising merchant houses in Antiva, yes? Lady Amell will want to see us as soon as we are a bit less muddy, and the longer we are out here, the muddier we become."

The guard squinted up at him through his visor. Did they have camels in Antiva? "I... er, of course, Messere. My sincerest apologies." He glanced up at the other, taller camel rider, but the man was silent. "One moment."

The gate yawned open for the travellers, sweeping through pooling rainwater, and the rider in front, the silent one, urged his camel on. The other followed, and the gate swung closed behind them. It was hard to see the palace's outline through the rain, but it was there, _finally_ within reach.

Outside the door, the lead rider brought his camel to a stop and dismounted, groaning as he stretched stiff muscles. His back was particularly unhappy, and he took a moment to roll his shoulders and stretch before heading back to help his companion down from his cushioned seat.

"We are finally here, yes? Just look at this place." The Antivan-accented rider patted his camel's side, and the beast stood up and shook itself. "Really, Harellan? We must get him inside. We must get _ourselves_ inside."

He untied Harellan from the other camel and handed the rope to one of the grooms approaching them. "You be careful of him. He spits. But, he is a great fan of oats. They are maybe not so good for him, but it has been a long ride. We will all celebrate." He pressed a coin into the groom's hand and turned back to his companion. "Come, let us get out of the rain before it ruins your beard."

"The beard ruins my face, so I imagine it's fair," said the other hooded figure in a heavy Ander accent. He stooped so as not to tower so much over his companion. Another groom took his camel's reins, and he smiled in thank you, rain dripping off the point of his hood as he followed his friend inside.

"Ah, that is better," he said, finally out of the rain, though he regretted dripping water and mud onto the lovely tiled floors.

A young man with bright red hair swept into the room, dressed in clothes that looked like they probably cost more than some of the houses by the city gate. "Messere Kestrel and...?"

"Warden Kasselmann," said the shorter of the two, gesturing to his taller companion. "We were in the same tavern, in Val Dorma, and we were both headed down for the royal wedding, so I thought, why should I not travel with this delightful piece of ... ah... fine, Ander Warden."

"Oh," said the young man, looking distressedly at his papers. "That is... we..."

"You can give us both the same room, you know. I do not think either of us will mind." The smile was clear even through the thick Antivan accent.

"Well, you, Messere Kasselmann, are at the end of the hall, between the Viscount of Kirkwall and the Marchioness of Ansburg. But, you, Messere Kestrel, are ... included in the suite with Lord Hawke and his husband. Which is where Lady Amell assured me you belonged." The young man shuffled his papers again.

"Ah, but we do belong with Lord Hawke. Consider that I have brought Warden Kasselmann as an offering to appease his fine tastes." Messere Kestrel's grin was barely visible in the shadow of his hood.

The young man blinked in surprise but otherwise schooled his expression. He neatened the papers in his hands and cleared his throat. "Very well. I will show you to your suite and inform Lady Amell of the change. This way, Messeres." Glancing at the mud on their feet, he turned with a flourish and led them down the hall, heels clicking on tile.

Behind them, servants stepped in to mop up the puddle they had dripped in the entryway. They passed through long corridors, exquisitely decorated with marble columns and lined with rich carpets. The young man, who introduced himself as Jenet, made polite small talk along the way, asking about their journey and apologising for the inclement weather as though it had been his own doing.

"Here we are, Messeres," he said at last, gesturing at a pair of grand doors as someone came through them, "just ahead! Ah, and here's Messere Hawke, who -- oh."

Even though they were hooded and soaked, Artemis's eyes lit up at the sight of the new arrivals. He ran towards them as though to hug Messere Kestrel only to stop short at the last second, less out of propriety and more because the man was soaked through and muddy.

"You made it!" he said, wringing his hands instead.

"Could you possibly have doubted me? Ah, such shame you bring me. Right to my heart!" Messere Kestrel smiled, though it was lost in the shadows. He didn't dare push his hood back, after that rain, until he could be sure the paint on his cheeks hadn't rinsed off. "Come, my dear one. Let us go inside, where you can unwrap the gift I have brought you." He gestured to the taller figure beside him, who waved. "I was with your brother's ... business partner, is it? in a tavern in Val Dorma. He is a very handsome man, under all this mud. Perhaps you will help me rinse him off."

"Lady Amell wishes to see you for supper," Jenet cut in. "Ring the bell, when you are prepared, and someone will come to escort you. Is there anything else you need, this evening?"

"Not unless you also intend to join us in our enjoyment of Lord Hawke's many talents," Messere Kestrel's eyes wandered over Jenet, his head bobbing as he looked the young man up and down, since his eyes were shadowed.

"Thank you, but I must attend to the rest of the preparations, for the evening." A bit of scarlet crept onto the edges of Jenet's cheeks, as he backed down the hall. "Ring if you require anything!"

"Thank you, Jenet!" Artemis called out. "Try not to traumatise him too much while you're here, Mack. The poor man already has to deal with Bethany on a daily basis." He walked backwards as he spoke, reaching behind him until his hand alighted on a doorknob and keeping an eye on Jenet's retreating back until it had disappeared from view. Propping the door open with his foot, Artie tugged them both inside the suite. "You are both filthy, by the way."

"And you let them in anyway, Amatus?" came a voice from a chair by the fire. Fenris eyed them over a book -- one of Bethany's latest publications, only parts of which he even understood -- with a smile only just forming at the corners of his lips. "Did you roll through the mud on your way here?"

"I missed you too, asshole," said Messere 'Kasselmann', finally pushing back his hood once he was sure they were the only ones in the room.

"Ignore him," Artie huffed, "but shoes off, both of you."

"Shoes and everything else," Cormac agreed, dropping the Antivan accent and pulling up the outer layer of his robes, rolling it inside out as he took it off. He wiped his hands and face on the cleaner inside of it and then held it out to Artie. "I don't know where you're putting the washing, but that really needs it. I've been wearing it the whole way south."

Anders used the bottom of his own outer robe to pull his boots off, before also rolling it off. "I need a bath," he groaned, reaching over to fluff Cormac's hair where it had gone flat under the hood. "And then I need a look at Fenris. How's your arm?"

"I need a bath and then I need a look at my favourite brother," Cormac cut in, looking appreciatively at Artie, as he kicked his boots off as close to the door as possible. "Possibly a bath with my favourite brother, if Messere Kasselmann can stand to do his good works before we free up the tub."

Artie chuckled, setting their travel garments in the basket set aside for soiled laundry. He was aware of their shoes in the corner of his eye, and he knew he'd want to clean them before going to bed tonight, assuming one of the three men in the room didn't toss him onto it, which was likely. Finally, Artie cupped his brother's face and kissed him. "Missed you."

Anders waved his hand at the brothers. "Go on, then, if you don't me stinking up the room a little while longer." He looked around as he spoke. The room was fit for royalty, and from the looks of things, he had no doubt one of the adjoining rooms held a tub fit for a king. Or at least a pair of frisky noblemen. "Looks like your sister's spoiling you."

Anders slumped into the empty chair by the fire, across from Fenris, who was marking his place in his book.

"This was supposed to be Celene's suite," Fenris informed him as Artemis tugged his brother towards the bathroom. "Orlais's loss is our gain, I suppose."

"The Empress of Orlais decided to ditch a royal wedding? Oooh. That sounds like a story," Anders purred, holding his hands out to the flame, until the door to the bathroom closed. "Here, let me get a look at you, while they're busy. I think I know what it is, but ... I'm really sorry, Fenris. I don't know how to fix it, yet. I'll do what I can."

"It is less obvious, now," Fenris said, peeling off his shirt and sitting forward in the chair. "Your salve has kept the worst of it under control, and the clinic in Hightown was able to reproduce it. I still have trouble, sometimes, but it doesn't show on my skin."

"So, here's the bad news. You're not what he was trying to make, but you survived, so he kept you. None of the others made it. A lot of what I've managed to translate is... not Tevinter. It's reproduced from some elvish texts, and a lot of what I'm seeing ... He had trouble with it. Cormac's having trouble with it. It's not Dalish, from what I can tell. He's trying -- was trying -- to reproduce some ancient elven ritual that... from what I can tell... would have bound someone -- specifically an elven mage, which is a little weird -- to him, but also allowed them to walk in the Fade? That's where things get more weird. I'm kind of relying on my translations of his translations, but I get the impression that what you do is almost, but not quite, what he meant. That you should be able to wield an enormous amount of magical power -- on a level with Justice and I -- but be permanently and inseparably bound to his will. Obviously that last part didn't work."

There was no humour in Fenris's laugh. "Which must have frustrated him greatly. If only he had succeeded, I would not have run away."

"I guess he figured you were close enough, at least up until the part where you killed him." Broadcasting his movements before he made them, Anders leaned forward and touched Fenris's arm, prodding at the lyrium lines and the skin around them. "But, I'm trying to figure out how to reverse what he did. If I _can_ reverse what he did. I'll keep trying, but, to be honest, managing the symptoms might be the best we can do." Fenris nodded, his expression resigned. "But the lines look and feel much better than the last time I saw them. The salve certainly seems to be helping." Thank the Maker for that.

"It is," Fenris agreed with a nod of his head. One line flickered under Anders's touch before he wrangled it back under control.

"The swelling's better... and the pain?" Anders looked up, and Fenris nodded. "What about other symptoms? Like what you told about that duel with Theron and dropping the sword. Anything like that happen recently?"

"Not... exactly, no." Fenris flexed his fingers, and Anders felt the tendons move under his hand. "Sometimes my hands go numb, or my feet, but it passes."

"If it gets worse -- if it starts taking longer to pass -- let me know. Send a letter. I'll find a way to get back to Kirkwall, if I have to." Anders shook his head and poured healing and electricity into Fenris's skin, hands carefully tracing the lines, as he did his best to repair any damage he couldn't see. "For the first time, I wish we hadn't killed Hadriana. If she was his apprentice, she must've known something."

"She did not have his favour the way some of them did. I suspect she knew less than you." Fenris chuckled, not the expected response while talking about Hadriana, but she wasn't who he was thinking of. "Did I ever tell you -- he had another apprentice, for a while, one he was rather fond of, who just couldn't stomach the work. Left him for a better offer in Carastes. After the next supper with the other magister, I will never again willingly put a creamy salad dressing in my mouth."

"That sounds disgusting. I'm not sure I even want to know." Anders looked faintly horrified.

"I contributed to that salad dressing, and I didn't want to know. And I most certainly didn't want to wake up in the middle of the night eight years later to the memory of it." Fenris got a hand around Anders's arm to rub his face.

Anders tried not to think about that too much. Either way, he wasn't sure he'd be able to look at salad dressing the same way again.


	58. Chapter 58

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two Hawkes and a bath. (The internet is for porn.)

In the bathroom next door, Cormac was just as wet as he had been out in the rain, if considerably cleaner, thanks to his neurotic little brother. Said brother was sitting with him in the roomy tub, scrubbing him in places that probably didn't need quite so much scrubbing, and stealing kisses every chance he got.

"I missed you," Artie said again, kissing behind Cormac's ear. He thanked the Maker for his sister's foresight, for putting them together and a decent distance from the other visitors. "More so now that you smell less like sweat and camel."

"I will never underestimate the joys of travelling with a healer again," Cormac sighed, wrapping his arms around his delightfully damp brother. "I may have smelled like sweat and camel, but at least I could sit down. Do you know he got me the soft saddle for pregnant women? And I had the audacity to complain about that? Never again."

He cleared his throat and pulled Artie closer into his lap. "By which I mean to say I missed you every day. When I heard what happened in Orlais... I kept waiting to hear Val Royeaux cast the blame on Kirkwall. But, it didn't happen. And you're safe. And now you're right back where you belong -- which is to say 'in my arms', not 'in Starkhaven'. Creators, this city just creeps me out."

"What creeps me out is that Sebastian's in charge of it," Artie replied, laughing softly against Cormac's lips. He twisted so that he was straddling his brother's lap, bracing one arm on the edge of the tub as he kissed Cormac slowly, achingly. He ran his fingers through soft hair he'd already shampooed. "But, soon enough Bethy will be in charge of _him_ , if she isn't already, and then I'll be even more horrified but for different reasons. Right now, however, I have both you and Fenris, safe and clean, and Anders, safe, soon to be clean. I couldn't be more pleased with that configuration of events."

Artie leaned in for another kiss, just because he could and just because he loved having the feel of Cormac's lips against his, reminding him that they weren't apart for the moment.

"Soon to be, by which you mean, after we sit in here until the water's gone cold, indulging in exactly the sorts of things Carver would punch me in the face for letting you do to me," Cormac murmured, before capturing Artie's lips again. At least Carver wouldn't be able to punch him in the middle of the wedding, without starting an international incident. He hoped that would count for something.

His hands slid easily over the wet skin of Artie's back, and he warmed the tips of his fingers to trace designs there -- a heart, a few very dirty Dalish words. "I love you. Every moment, with all my heart. Except that's not right. That's not it at all. That's weak, like cheap tea. You are my god and my comfort and joy is in your smile. So, tell me, my divine delight, how shall I make you smile, this time?"

Artie could think of a great deal many things Cormac could do, all of him involving those hands on his skin, and he arched into the touches at his back. He was determinedly not thinking about the dirty shoes in the other room or the fact that Anders needed a bath too. Too bad... if this tub were only a little wider, it might have fit the three of them.

"I want to taste you," Artie murmured, deeply, honestly. "But... maybe we should save that part for outside the bathtub. Sure, I can hold my breath for a long time, but not _that_ long." He chuckled self-consciously and kissed Cormac again, running a hand down his chest and reacquainting himself with his brother's body. "Tell me what _you_ want. Please."

"Oh, you know me." Cormac smiled and looked past Artie's shoulder, at the room they were in, all blue and gold. Perfect for the empress. Sort of silly for a collection of minor nobles from Kirkwall. Well, maybe not so minor, any more, now that Anton was viscount. "I want you to make me scream and bleed. And look! We're already in the bath. It won't even get messy." The last sounded almost pleading.

"You can ruin me, and it'll clean up easy. Anders is right on the other side of the door. The blood never has to leave the tub." Cormac's eyes sparkled as he looked back at Artemis. "Or you could just stay right here in my lap and hold me while I put this hand to better use." He slipped it between them, wrapping his fingers around them both.

Artie's breath stuttered out of him at Cormac's touch. His brother always asked for terrible things, and Artemis knew he was _going_ to ask for terrible things, but he always asked for them so sweetly. "I don't have much on me with which to draw blood," he said, a touch breathless, as he indicated his naked body. The thought of drawing blood -- his _brother's_ blood -- always made his stomach twist, but he would do whatever Cormac asked. He had teeth, nails...

Artemis's hand joined Cormac's around the two of them, angling his hand so that his nails bit into Cormac with each thrust.

Cormac sucked in a sharp breath, arching dizzily against his brother. "Just like that -- oh, my beloved, my most divine, please, please make me scream for you!"

He writhed and thrust into that jagged grip, the sharp bite quick against his flesh. His hand gripped them both tighter, fingers rippling along their lengths, beneath Artemis's hand. His other hand squeezed Artemis's bottom, fingers digging into that firm curve.

This was something he could do, he reminded himself. He knew how to scream and plead for more. And as long as Artemis looked like he was enjoying himself, this could go on. "Do you still like it when I scream for you? Do you still dream about taking Gantry's place between my legs?"

"Fuck yes," Artie breathed, both in answer to Cormac's questions and in answer to the way their hands squeezed and wrung them together. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was aware of where they were, that they were in the same building as their sister and her fiancé and countless other dignitaries. Oh, the scandal they would cause... "I love the sounds you make, hearing the filthy things you want to do to me."

Artemis groaned against his brother's lips, hips rocking into their combined fist as he tried not to worry about if he was squeezing too hard. He doubted there was such a thing as 'too hard' with his brother.

Cormac squeezed his eyes shut as he rubbed a finger gently over his brother's hole, teasing at the edges. "Claw me. Bite me. Pant and plead against my ear," he ground out, hoping the tension in his voice sounded like pain, rather than nervousness. "I want to be inside you. I want you to feel how much I love it when you touch me like that. I want you to tear me apart and feel how hard it makes me, how thick and tight I fit inside you when you make me scream. I want you to dig your nails into me until there's nothing I can do but come so hard they can hear it in Antiva City."

The roughness of Artemis's grip was the only thing that kept him breathing, after that, as he couldn't hold his breath and pant at the same time. Every time he said things like that to Artie, he wondered if he'd gone too far. He wondered where 'too far' was. But, if Artie wanted filthy, that's what he'd get.

" _Fuck_ , Cormac." He had a way of making the most terrible things sound so perfect. Artemis pressed back against Cormac's finger in clear invitation, careful not to loosen his grip. "I want you inside me, filling me up. I'll make the whole palace shake for you."

Biting, Cormac had asked for. Biting he could do. Artie mouthed at the line of Cormac's jaw, scraped his teeth down Cormac's neck, and bit down on the muscle where neck became shoulder. He worried his teeth against the skin there, not hard enough to draw blood but enough to bruise.

"Yes," Cormac breathed, his head tipping back over the rim of the tub as he slid down, straightening his legs as best he could. The thing about getting thick in the middle, of course, was that it made things like this just a bit more difficult to accomplish. Still, he dipped a fingertip into Artemis and cast a grease spell -- more than usual, because of the water -- before pressing two fingers in, slow and deep.

"Always so soft inside," he murmured, trying to keep some control of himself, until less dangerous parts of his body were buried inside his brother. It was a stupid sentence, he realised after a moment. All asses were soft inside. It was part of the appeal.

Eagerly, Artie rocked back on those fingers, soft, needy sounds starting at the back of his throat. "Please," he murmured. "Please, please, please." Water sloshed against the edge of the tub in time to Artemis's hips and the movement of their hands. 

Artemis pressed in for another kiss, lips pressed sweetly to Cormac's as he forgot, for the barest moment, that he was supposed to be hurting his brother.

For the moment, Cormac didn't mind having a slightly clearer head than he expected, as he worked Artemis open with his fingers. "You spend all this time getting so clean, and now you want me to dirty you up, inside," he mumbled against his brother's lips, with a faint smile. "Is that really what you want?" he asked, with a twist of his wrist. "Your big brother filling you up? You want to take that back to your husband? You want him and Anders to feel the walls shake and know it's me with you, in you?"

He was a little more concerned about Bethany, really. Carver and Anton were at the other end of the hall, and it was a very, very long hall. And Fenris was here. Really, they could just blame Fenris for any... notable earthquakes. He was fairly sure _he_ couldn't be heard outside the suite, at least.

Artemis hummed in appreciation of Cormac's words, of Cormac's fingers, as he nuzzled Cormac's cheek. He smelled less of oranges than usual as he was, freshly cleaned and scrubbed with the amenities Bethany had left them. Artemis missed that smell, but underneath, he was still Cormac.

"Can you think of a better way to break in our suite?" Artie purred in Cormac's ear before wrapping his teeth around it and biting down hard enough to sting. More than sting, he hoped, but then the skin of his ear was more delicate than the skin at his shoulder, where Artemis had already left his teeth marks.

"Not too much breaking, I hope. I don't think Sebastian could find it in his heart to forgive us if we broke the bath. This thing looks expensive." Cormac chuckled breathily, roughly driving his fingers in. He patted Artie's side, with his other hand. "Up. I can't get this in you unless you pick up your hips."

After a bit of shifting that sloshed the water against the sides of the tub -- and Cormac hoped not too much of it ended up on the floor -- he had his face pressed against Artemis's chest, nibbling idly at a nipple as he lined himself up. "Should I ravish you mercilessly, or do you want me to be gentle?"

Artemis hummed, considering that carefully. He combed back his brother's wet hair with his fingers. "You know I love a good ravishing," he said. They would probably slosh water everywhere, but Artie would let that bother him later.

Slowly, Artemis sank down on his brother, steadying himself with a hand on Cormac's shoulder. His eyes fluttered shut, a sigh escaping him, and he leaned in for another bruising kiss, hands tangling in wet hair.

Taking Artie's hands in his own, Cormac kissed one palm and then the other, before placing those hands on his own chest. "Then you should hold on tight. Very tight. Actually, you should squeeze until those little stubs you have for nails tear through my skin."

He smiled up at his younger brother, like the disciples once smiled at Andraste, and rested his hands on those thin, sharp hips. "Anything for you, beloved," he promised, firmly holding Artemis in place as he rolled his hips and then slammed them upward -- and that was the sound of the first wave slopping over the foot of the tub. Cormac ignored it and repeated the motion, the wave returning to the top of the bath and breaking against his chin, on the downstroke.

Every snap of Cormac's hips knocked a desperate sound out of Artie, who clung to Cormac's chest, his shoulders, hard enough to leave bruises in the shape of his nails. The water sloshed and spilled over the edge of the tub, and Artie was sure that, somewhere, his clothes were getting soaked.


	59. Chapter 59

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One Hawke discovers baths were not meant to be used in this fashion. Beds are a safer choice. (Still smut.)

In the next room, Fenris's ears pricked at the sound of splashing water, and he exchanged a knowing look with Anders and chuckled. "Your bath might be a while," he said.

"I can be patient." Anders smiled at Fenris. "And if I can find a basin to rinse the worst of this off, we can be patient, together."

The unsubtle flirtation was cut short by swearing and coughing from the bathroom. "You two all right?" Anders called toward the door.

Cormac was twisted around, coughing and laughing over the side of the tub, Artemis still firmly seated on his lap and no doubt feeling every cough. "I'm good," he choked out, hopefully loud enough for Anders to hear. "Definitely not drowning. Nope."

"Are you all right?" Artie asked, and that motion was wonderfully distracting, each time Cormac coughed. Somewhere in there, he was trying not to sound amused, but as long as Cormac was still able to talk, he wasn't worried. "Usually I'm the one choking when we do this sort of thing."

"Usually neither of us is inhaling bathwater," Cormac managed, rubbing weak healing into his throat. "Note to self: Do not lean in the path of sloshing water. Got it."

He wrapped his hands around Artie's hips again and pulled his brother down as he ground upward, hard and slow. "But, I think we were doing something else, before I nearly drowned myself, like an idiot. How about a little more of that, hmm?"

"Preferably with a little less drowning this time, yes," Artie agreed, flexing his hips to meet each thrust. In all the splashing, they had lowered the water level in the tub, and the air felt cool against Artie's damp skin. "But at least we have the healer in the next room."

Artemis held on tight again and tried to coax Cormac into a harsher rhythm, remembering to let his nails bite into skin where normally he'd try to keep his touch soft. "Cormac," he breathed, still disbelieving that his brother was here with him.

Cormac didn't take much coaxing -- the feel of Artemis's fingers kneading his chest, nails digging in when he thrust up just right, had him back to a jarring pace in no time. "I'm yours," he promised. "Always."

He wondered if Anders was going to have to save them from themselves, as he shifted to get his head out of the way of the water, but sat up a bit too far. His belly slipped down, ruining the angle of the next thrust. There had to be a position in which neither of them would drown and he could still get all the way in. For a moment, he debated freezing the water under himself in layers, until they rose up out of it, but then he realised that would be the kind of cold that prevented this sort of thing. If there was one thing that killed a hard-on faster than darkspawn, it was frozen balls.

He twisted a bit, shifting out of his own way, and picked up a brutal pace again, just holding his breath for half of each thrust, when the water broke against his face. That would do, for now.

Artie's shaky sounds and the splash of water against tile filled the room. That was perfect, right there, at that angle, but the sight of his brother holding his breath was more comical than inspiring. The next sound that punched out of him was a shaky laugh. He gave Cormac's hair a light tug to get his attention.

"Not that this doesn't feel fucking amazing," he said, still moving against his brother, "but maybe we should consider moving this to the bed before we end up hurting or killing ourselves?"

"Whatever you desire," Cormac paused as another wave broke against his chin, "my love."

He took stock of where all the body parts had ended up. "I'm going to make a fool of myself," he declared, shifting his grip to Artemis's bottom as he gathered his legs. "Arms around my neck. Legs around my waist. I'm not pulling out. I'm just going to carry you out there. Anders can move."

This time, he did cast the ice spell, to fix his feet in place at the bottom of the tub, as he stood. There would be no falling. That would be disastrous.

Artemis squeaked at the change in elevation, wrapped tightly around his brother. He smothered a laugh against Cormac's neck. "You know, this would be a lot simpler if you pulled out long enough for me to _walk_ into the next room..." But then he would lose the delicious weight of his brother's knob inside him, even if only for a minute.

"But, why would I do a thing like that?" Cormac asked, breaking the ice on one foot to step out of the tub and onto a thick rag rug that was soaked, but definitely not going anywhere. The other foot followed, shortly. "Why would I give up your delicious warmth for even a moment I haven't got to?"

He walked carefully toward the door. Waddled might have been more accurate, between balancing his brother and not sliding on the wet tile, once he was off the rug.

"But, you are going to need to open the door, because I just don't have enough hands," he pointed out, leaning Artemis's back against the wall beside the door. "But, in a bit," he said, rocking his hips and nibbling at Artemis's neck.

Artemis purred his approval, tightening his grip around Cormac's waist and tipping his head back against the wall. They were in less danger of drowning in this configuration, and if Artie closed his eyes, he couldn't see the mess they had made over Cormac's shoulder.

Leaning his weight back against the wall, Artemis rolled his hips to each of Cormac's thrusts and panted into Cormac's ear. Carefully, he took one hand off Cormac long enough to grapple with the doorknob.

Cormac pounded in harder, broken moans spilling against Artemis's ear, every few thrusts. He knew he'd have to stop again, soon -- another long, teasing pause, as he carried Artemis to bed -- but right now, he was going to push them both as close to the edge as he could, without falling down.

"You're everything to me," he panted. "My god, my world, my most divine... I want to please you. I want to watch you smile."

He cut off, mid-thrust, as the door creaked open beside them, still trying to catch his breath as he leaned against Artemis and the wall.

With the door open, Artie could return both hands to Cormac's skin, where they belonged, nails digging divots into his shoulders, digging deeper each time Cormac moved against him. Artemis whined in Cormac's ear, trying to coax him back into motion.

"Don't stop," he said, reintroducing his teeth to Cormac's ear. "Either fuck me through this wall or fuck me through the bed, but don't stop!"

"Oh, I'm not stopping," Cormac purred, straightening up and edging toward the door. "I'm just a terrible tease. We'll go for the big bed. The one I'm pretty sure Anders and Fenris are going to have to move over to give us some space in." He paused as he stepped back into the bedroom, looking over Artemis's shoulder. "What are you two even doing?"

"I'm a mage. I can clean myself without water," Anders said, with a grin, both hands on one of Fenris's feet, where Fenris's leg was wrapped around him. "But, Fenris decided clean wasn't enough, and he had to do something about my hair. My hair is glorious, thank you."

"Your hair is horrible, mage. What have you been using on it?" Fenris griped from somewhere behind him, the stream of grumpiness cutting off at the start of the next word, as Anders's thumbs pressed into the sole of his foot.

"Lemon juice. You know I'm not naturally this blond, right?" Anders laughed and kept his hands moving, small sounds of pleasure drifting out from behind him.

"I will teach you better ways. This is terrible." Fenris peered out from behind Anders's shoulder, eyeing his husband wrapped around Cormac. "I was wrong about you, mage. You'd never have been a magister. Magisters have people to take care of their hair for them."

"I could point out that I apparently have you taking care of my hair for me," Anders quipped, "but since I like keeping my hair attached to my head, I won't."

"Wise," Fenris growled, giving his hair a warning tug anyway. He eyed the entwined mages waddling their way to the bed, and he gave Anders's hair another, less sharp tug. "Let us move up the bed. It seems your Hawke plans to continue ravishing my Hawke, and we are in the way."

Fenris scooted back until his back met the headboard, and Anders followed, giving Fenris's foot a squeeze when the elf pointedly put it back in his lap.

"We should at least put down a towel..." Artie suggested between bites to Cormac's neck.

Anders eyed the two for a moment, examining the angles, reflecting that there was really something missing in his life. What? No. That wasn't the point. The point was..."Stand still and close your eyes and mouths."

Cormac shot him an odd look, but Anders just waved his hand in the universal gesture for 'hurry up', until the brothers complied. A warm wind swept up from their feet, circling them and getting warmer with every pass. As it got to the heat of an Ander summer, it stabilised, still whipping around the Hawkes, until they were merely damp, instead of dripping wet.

"Okay, you have to teach me that," Cormac decided, finally opening a somewhat stiff eye.

"I could probably teach it to him, faster," Anders admitted, gesturing to Artemis. "But, it's your fault I thought of it. You and your warming and freezing things dry."

Artemis mouthed at Cormac's skin, which felt soft and warm after that spell. "That was almost pleasant," he said with a hum. "Please teach _me_ that spell!"

"Sure thing," Anders laughed. "When you're a little less occupied, and I'm not busy enjoying the view." 

"A view which your massive head is blocking," Fenris groused, adjusting his position to better see over Anders's shoulder.

"My head is not massive!"

"Everything about you is massive. Particularly your large mouth!"

Anders opened his mouth to protest there were larger parts of him, before remembering he could fit the most notable of those in his mouth. His teeth clacked shut and he glared over his shoulder, just long enough for Fenris to notice and smile smugly at him, before they both returned their attention to the Hawkes.

"Don't worry, we'll give you both a nice view," Cormac promised, gently pouring Artemis onto the bed, beside them. If he stayed standing, Fenris would have a clear view of Artie and Anders would be able to watch them both. For now, at least. He wasn't sure how long that would last, before he ended up leaning forward again.


	60. Chapter 60

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cormac and Artemis put on a show for a very appreciative audience. (The end of the smut.)

Starting slow, he ran his hands down Artemis's chest, pinching both nipples sharply, before his hands settled on Artie's hips. "Still interested?" he purred, hands just out of range of Artemis's knob, where it rested on his belly. "Still want more of this?" he asked, drawing himself back, slowly, and then slamming back in.

"Fuck yes," Artemis breathed, the words knocked out of him. He squirmed, locking his ankles behind Cormac's back and grabbed a fistful of the sheets above his head, arching in a way he hoped their audience would find enticing. He could feel their eyes on him, and his knob twitched at the thought. "Like I would say no. When have I ever said no to my big brother?"

Fenris swallowed, remembering he still had Anders's hair in his hand. He still didn't know what to make of the two of them, of their relationship, but the noises and faces Artemis was making were certainly appealing.

"I'm sure you have," Cormac breathed, chuckling between thrusts, "but I'll make you a list, later. Right now, I'm more interested in you saying 'yes'. What else will get me that, hmm? What else do you want from me, besides a good, hard fuck?"

Anders caught it -- the way Cormac made it sound like he was taking control, but was actually giving Artie the decision. And he realised that wasn't really something Cormac did, with him. With him, Cormac just asked, with no concern for how it would look. Of course, they also didn't usually have an audience, when Cormac was doing something he'd have to ask about.

He felt Fenris's hands stop moving in his hair, as they were both distracted by the scene in front of them. "You all right?" he asked, quietly, not taking his eyes off the Hawkes.

Fenris unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth and went back to work on Anders's hair, working oils into the strands until they stopped feeling so crunchy. "Fine," he said, just as softly. "I was simply struck motionless by the appalling state of your hair."

A glib non-answer, but Anders didn't ask or at least knew enough to ask right then. "More appalling than my beard?" he asked instead.

"Nothing is more appalling than your beard." Instead of taking offence, the damnable mage smirked.

Further up the bed, Artie was having more difficulty finding words. "Touch me, please," he begged. "Just pin me down and have me." He hoped that this was enough for Cormac, without the pain, but Artie couldn't reach him like this anyway.

Cormac took a deep breath and leaned forward, taking one hand from Artemis's hips to grab his wrists, instead, pinning them to the bed above Artie's head. "Like this?" he asked, shoving in roughly and then picking up the pace. He'd gotten used to fast and hard, with Anders -- both ways, really, as much as he preferred to be gentle with Anders's flesh, Anders complained about the time it took, some nights. Still, he watched Artemis's face for the faintest indication of distress. "Is this what you want?" he asked, the thrusts punctuation between the words.

Anders continued to knead Fenris's foot, quieting Justice's concerns. Cormac was careful -- too careful, he thought -- and Fenris ... Fenris would come to a conclusion, soon enough. He and Justice could still feel the new tension in Fenris's muscles, but the decision was Fenris's to make, and he hadn't yet.

Artemis noted the searching look on Cormac's face, and he arched against him in a way he hoped left no doubt as to his enjoyment. "Yes! Please..." He twisted his wrists, not enough to pull free but just enough to feel Cormac's grip around them. He was gentler still than Fenris, but then it had taken Fenris a long time to trust himself enough to let go. This was still good. _More_ than good.

Each snap of Cormac's hips knocked a desperate sound out of Artie, and sometimes that sound took the shape of a word, 'please', or a name, 'Cormac'. Behind Anders, Fenris shifted, toes flexing, eyes not leaving his husband's face.

Cormac held the pace as best he could, realising, to his amusement, that his belly rested against the base of Artie's knob, in this position. That was probably actually good. Or at least a horrible tease. He was all right with being a horrible tease -- this was his brother, after all. "So beautiful," he panted, the words not really conveying what he meant at all. On the other hand, he had no idea what words would mean what he meant -- that subjective perfection, the way he took notice of and pleasure in every motion of Artemis's body, the fact that there was absolutely nothing he would deny his brother if Artie could make a case for it.

A particular contraction of muscles got the whole of his attention, as all the breath rushed out between his lips. "Fuck. Keep doing that, and I'm not going to last." He'd gotten lazy with Anders, he supposed. Anders had enough stamina for both of them. If he slowed down, Anders would still be going when he came back up. But, he dared not leave Artemis unsatisfied.

Artemis peered up at him, looking debauched and a little smug, and he squeezed again, just to get Cormac to make that face one more time. He was close anyway after all that teasing in the tub, and if he tilted his hips just right, just _there_ , he could rub up against Cormac’s stomach at the end of each thrust. With the way Cormac hammered into him, so obviously trying to hold back, it was enough to make Artie shake, the sounds pouring from his chest rising in pitch.

Anders braced one arm against the bed in case of an earthquake, but it was only the bed that shook and only in time to Cormac’s movements. “I hope he doesn’t wax the floor,” Anders said to Fenris out of the corner of his mouth, eyes still glued to the inspiring scene that was the entwined brothers.

Fenris grunted distractedly in agreement.

"Do you like it like this?" Cormac breathed, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to keep hold of himself just a little longer. "I want to hear you beg for it. Beg me to make you come. Beg me to let you come. Wouldn't take much -- a little piece of leather, and you'd be aching hard all through supper. How quiet do you think you'd be with my hand under the table? Sitting with all those foreign nobles watching while your big brother teases your knob until you can't sit still... And they won't even know who I am. Maybe we'll do that anyway. A little orichalcum goes a long way. Sitting at dinner, all fucked out and still desperate to be fucked and sucked, but mostly sucked, by then. All three of us rubbing you off under the table, behind people's backs. Tell me what you want, little brother. Do you want to go to supper with my first pleasure of the evening still wet in your hole? Do you want to have to talk to our sister, knowing it's running down your thighs, and I'll lick it all off you later?"

Okay, that last was probably a bit much. _Artemis_ , not Isabela. But, by that point, Cormac was thinking about plucking chickens and that time the sand cats managed to get into the icebox. Anything to keep him off the edge.

A ragged sound tore out of Artemis, something that was almost the shape of his brother's name, as he arched off the bed, spilling over them both. He slumped back to the bed, legs still holding Cormac tight around the waist. He wished he could pour some equally inspiring filth into his brother's ear, but he could barely remember his own name.

Peering over the bed, Fenris checked the floors, relieved to find them wax free. Relieved, and a little concerned, since one never did know where Artemis's magic ended up.

Cormac let the sound and the sensation wash over him, even as something in the back of his mind latched onto the fact there'd been no earthquake. Something was wrong, but everything else was right. He let himself be swept away, at last, thighs tensing as he howled his desperate release. And then he sank down onto Artemis and slid off the end of the bed, as his knees gave out.

"Hnrrgh!" he announced, meaning to say that he was fine. Better than fine. He was good, and he was just going to lie there, for a moment, staring at the ceiling, with his legs twisted under him. As he remembered where his fingers were and how to use them, he held up both hands in a heart shape, hopefully above the top of the bed. Really, he blamed the camel. He was better than this, but sixteen days on camel-back hadn't done him any favours.

Artemis blinked dazedly up at the ceiling, making a vaguely questioning and concerned sound when Cormac landed somewhere other than on top of him. Pushing himself up onto his elbows, he caught sight of Cormac on the floor, his laugh little more than a gust of air as he pushed at Cormac's hands with one foot. 

"You idiot," he said with brotherly fondness. "Am I getting to be too much for you, old man?"

"Hey, hey, watch who you're calling old!" Anders huffed.

"Sorry, yes," Artemis drawled, flopping back to the bed in a boneless sprawl. "How can my brother be old when you're fresh as the morning dew?"

"'Fresh' is not the word you would have used," Fenris groused, "if you had just spent the past half hour trying turn this straw on his head back into hair."

Anders pinched the top of Fenris's foot and was kicked in the thigh for his efforts.


	61. Chapter 61

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened to Artie's earthquakes, and who's cooking supper?

Cormac gurgled vaguely, before actually focusing enough to sit up, tugging himself up with a grip on the blanket. It wasn't going anywhere. The three people on it weighed more than he did. "Youngest person in the room doesn't get to call me old," he grumbled, grabbing Artie's foot and biting one toe. Toes were still clean, he figured. It wasn't like Artie's feet had touched anything but his back and the blanket since the bathtub.

With a contented hum, he licked the bottom of Artie's foot and started kissing his way along the inside of that long leg.

"I've turned him into a monster, while you weren't looking." Anders laughed and squeezed Fenris's foot. "He's insatiable. Two years of almost nothing but night after night of Grey Warden stamina."

"I imagine that would turn anyone into a monster," Fenris said with a straight face.

Artemis hummed, hooking a leg over his brother's shoulder. "Well right now he's turned me into a magey puddle of goo. Brother-dear, I love you and I want to prolong our... reunion, but I think our sister would be terribly cross if we were late to dinner. It's usually best not to upset her on any day, but especially not when she is dealing with wedding stress on top of everything."

As Artie spoke, he reached down a hand to tangle in Cormac's hair, which was steadily growing less damp and more fluffy. He was reluctant to pull away from Cormac's warm weight.

"What's dinner?" Cormac asked, resting his cheek against his brother's belly. "How fancy have I got to look? Is this going to be some ridiculous five-course thing with foreign nobles complaining it's not twelve?"

"Actually," Fenris said, quietly, "your brother is cooking."

"Anton?" Cormac blinked a few times and squinted up at Fenris. "I didn't think he could make anything more complicated than a sandwich. ... of course, considering the sandwiches I've seen him make..."

"You are laying on the cook," Fenris corrected.

"I am not," Cormac argued. "Artie doesn't cook. Don't be ridiculous." He hefted a shoulder so he could turn and look up the length of his brother's body. "You cook? Since when?"

"Well, I've been _trying_ to cook for a long time," Artie grumbled at the ceiling. "I've only recently been successful. With Orana's help. She is a remarkably patient teacher. Anyway, I thought... it's just family tonight, and I figured it would be one less thing for Bethany to worry about. Or possibly worry more about, now that I think of it."

Anders cast a furtive glance over his shoulder to gauge Fenris's reaction to all of this. Fenris noticed the look and cleared his throat.

"You do not need to look so worried," he said. "Artemis's cooking has become... edible."

"Which is honestly the nicest thing anyone's ever said about my cooking, so I will let that go." Artie still narrowed his eyes at his husband and eyed the nearest pillow, wondering if it was close enough for him to grab and throw without getting up.

Fenris grinned, unapologetic. "Edible is a good thing, Amatus."

"Your food's always been edible, brother dear." Cormac muttered, considering how up he was going to have to get to get dressed. "Everything you ever cooked, I ate. Well. Most of it, I guess. I've been missing out, recently, I see. You were never that bad at it. You'd just... always add way too much of one of the base ingredients. I used to say if you just measured everything and lined it up, you'd know if you put it in or not. But, mum and the bowls and... yeah. You're lucky, Jannik. You never came over for supper until after we moved."

"Your mother was difficult, as I recall," Anders said, keeping his face as neutral as possible. "Red and gold?" he asked, as Fenris finally let go of his hair. "I know you've got something more Antivan in the chests, but you might want to save that for when people are actually looking at you."

"Mmm," Cormac agreed, nuzzling Artemis's belly, as the bed shifted with the loss of Anders's weight. "Red and gold is good. And my face, while you're up. Can't leave the room looking like this."

"Too bad. I rather like this look." Artie scratched Cormac's scalp. "Particularly the part where your ass is naked."

"Those aren't the cheeks he needs to disguise," Anders pointed out, kneeling on the floor to rifle through their baggage.

"No, but I would appreciate having them covered too," Fenris said, stretching out his legs now that Anders wasn't in front of him. "Preferably with more than just make-up, despite my husband's opinion."

"Spoilsport," Artie teased. He reached out to run a spark up Fenris's foot, watching his toes splay. 

"I would again like to point out that they have the same ass," Anders said, laying their clothing out on the bed, over Fenris's legs, "and I have yet to hear you complain about Artie's."

"I would again like to point out that my husband is not composed of forty percent fluff. I did not marry a bear." Fenris snorted and picked up one of the robes. "I still can't believe these are the normal clothes, up there. You could put a horse under one of these."

"Not a whole horse," Cormac objected, grabbing the bottom of his underrobe and dragging it on as he rolled off the bed. "But, a coat does make an excellent horse blanket. Of course, as has been pointed out, I am the size of a bear, and it fits me just fine."

"I said nothing about size," Fenris said, handing an outer layer in grey and blue to Anders. "You are as furry as a bear."

"And I'm almost as tall as a camel, but they're not quite the right cut for horses to wear." Anders grinned as the robe slid past his face. He took a moment to untuck his beard and then the long plaits Fenris had put his hair in.

Magic thrummed around Cormac, as he worked his hands through his hair, the curls tightening as it took shape around his head. "I like to look at it simply," he said. "I haven't had to buy clothes since we moved."

Artemis sighed up at the ceiling. "I suppose I have to put on clothes too, don't I."

"Unfortunately," said Fenris. "Your sister might object to you cooking naked." He pursed his lips to keep from smirking and exchanged a look with Anders.

Anders's eyes glazed over as he remembered the story Fenris had told him earlier. "He's not making salad, is he?" he asked, sounding disproportionately horrified to Artie's ears.

"No...?" Artie answered, squinting in confusion as he finally pushed himself up from the bed. "A pudding. _Should_ I make a salad?"

"No," Anders and Fenris answered at the same time.

"I'm not sure I want to know," Artemis said to his brother as he went searching for his own clothes, finding what he had been wearing woefully damp after their flailing in the tub.

"I'm pretty sure you've never fucked up a salad," Cormac assured him, pressing a quick kiss to Artie's cheek on his way across the room to the vanity. "I'm not sure it's possible to fuck up a salad."

"There was no 'up' in that sentence," Anders choked out.

"What? Yes there was. 'You can't fuck up a salad.'" Cormac looked entirely confused, catching Anders's eye in the mirror.

"No, but I'm told you can fuck a salad," Fenris said, with a shrug, as he got up to look for his foot wraps. He knew where he'd put them before they had guests, but now... He shrugged again, before ducking to look under the bed. "Magisters. I don't ask. It's easier that way."

Cormac stared distractedly into the mirror, painting away the tattoos on his cheeks. "How would that even work? Salads don't really lend themselves to that sort of treatment."

"Turnips and cucumbers," was all Anders would say on the subject.

"There's a comment in there about heads of lettuce," Artemis said, looking nothing less than haunted as he pulled on his trousers. "And please don't mention turnips in that context again. I have memories I've been spending years trying to erase."

"I can't blame that on magisters," Fenris replied, fishing out one of his foot wraps from under the bed. Now where was the other?

"Blame it on Anton," Artie muttered.

"Oh?" Anders perked up. "Is this dinner conversation that would make Cullen blush?"

"It's dinner conversation that would get you pudding in your face," Artemis huffed, an indignant look hidden behind fabric as he pulled on a tunic, a deep green with silver detailing. In the process of toeing about for his shoes, Artemis found Fenris's second foot wrap. "I think your footwear is trying to escape again," he said as he handed the scrap of fabric to his husband. "It had taken up a new fortified position inside my boot."

"Their tactics are growing more sophisticated," Fenris said with fake seriousness.

Cormac turned away from the mirror, at last, wiping his fingers on a bit of cloth reserved for exactly that. His hair rose up around his head, held off his face by a band of cloth that matched his robes, and his face was a smooth, dark brown, with no trace of tattoos or stubble. He looked, at a glance, like any other Merchant Prince of Antiva -- wealthy and vain, thick with the abundance available to him and through him. 

"Do you think our sister will recognise us? Not you and me, me and him." He bent down to pull on the jewelled slippers he meant to wear in place of the sandals he'd become so accustomed to. Sometimes, he still missed boots, though.

Artemis chuckled. "Honestly? I barely recognise you, and you just fucked me into the bed." Which was something he could still feel if he shifted a certain way. The thought made his cheeks redden as he combed his fingers through his hair. "As for him, I would have no idea under that beard, if not for the voice and that fact that he arrived with you."

Anders chuffed. "Should I start practising my Ander accent over dinner?"

"Still an Ander magical goat," Fenris added with a shrug. He did not fuss with his appearance. It was sufficient that he was clothed and did not reek of camel. 

Rising to his feet, Fenris wrapped an arm around Artemis and kissed behind his ear. "For all that your brother is a magical bear that I prefer clothed," he rumbled at Artie's ear, "you made an inspiring sight."

"Is that so?" Artemis smirked, leaning into his husband. "Then I suggest you save room for dessert." He twisted to give the tip of Fenris's ear a teasing bite, grinning when it twitched in reply.

* * *

The door was their first hint. Anders knew he was tired from the journey, but he didn't recall this door being so hard to open. He jiggled the handle. Not locked, just stuck. With his shoulder pressed to the door, a hard shove was enough to nudge the door open a crack, and that crack was enough to see what the problem was.

"Um. Does this happen often?" Anders called back to the other three occupants of the suite. He tried to toe aside the laundry that toppled in from the barely open door. "I think someone's pulled a prank on you. On us. Has Anton arrived?"

Cormac ducked under Anders's arm for a better look. "What are we blaming on the Viscount of Kirkw-- uh. That is... Shut the door a moment, you delightful savage."

As Cormac backed up, Anders did. "What--?"

Cormac pointed at Artemis. "Force mage. It's... well, the first time I've seen this, but I've seen this little shit yank the blankets off me from the next room. Of course, that was usually accompanied by things like dumping me out of the bed, pulling the sheets off too, peeling the wallpaper, moving the bed... I think your aim's getting better, brother dear. There's a pile of filthy washing piled against the door."

Artemis tipped his head back and groaned. "Not again," he muttered. 

"Again?" Anders repeated, arching an eyebrow.

"He wisely figured that earthquakes on a boat would not end well," Fenris said with a smug smile. "More's the pity. The earthquakes are usually easier to clean up. And slightly less likely to barricade us inside our bedroom."

"There are worse places we could be stuck," Artemis said, motioning for Fenris to move behind him, which he did. A moment of concentration, and then Artemis cast, the door bursting violently open and rattling on its hinges, the impressive pile of laundry flattened out into a trail. At least one dirty sock had reached the other end of the hall.

"That's gonna start rumours," Cormac muttered, watching doors that hadn't been pulled open by the fleeing laundry swing open at the sound, with a very small number of very surprised foreign nobles gazing confusedly out of them.

"What in the Void?" Anders demanded, loudly, voice heavily accented. "What is this blocking our door? Is this how we are greeted to Starkhaven? What kind of a strange joke is this?"

Artemis cleared his throat and followed Anders's lead, poking his head through as though only just noticing the mess. "My apologies, dear friend," he said, patting Anders's shoulder. "It's probably one of my brothers, not knowing that we had guests in our rooms. Or possibly knowing and not caring, the conniving little shits."

The other foreign nobles whispered to each other, but at least no one was calling the templars. Artie waved at them sheepishly, and one or two waved back hesitantly. 

Fenris leaned into his husband. "I still prefer the earthquakes."

"Yeah. I think I might too."


	62. Chapter 62

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waiting for supper, with Bethany.

Bethany looked up from her conversation with an elven servant, as the door of the lounge darkened with two figures. She blinked and cocked her head, before the size and shape of them sunk in. "Messere Kestrel, I presume?"

"A pleasure, Lady Amell." Cormac bowed and stepped into the room, to let Anders in as well. "And Warden Kasselmann, of course. When I saw he was coming the same way, I could hardly allow him to travel alone."

"Could hardly allow yourself to travel alone," Anders joked, the Ander accent thick in his mouth. "Why take the Imperial Highway by yourself, when you know the bandits won't dare a Warden?"

"Also this, yes. But, he is so very handsome, and my eyes were so very tired of nothing but stretches of sand." Cormac pressed a hand to his chest, dramatically. "May we?" he asked, gesturing to the seats around one corner of the small table.

"Do sit." Bethany smiled at them. "Amelda was just going to get us some wine, while we wait. My older brother has decided to cook for us, this evening."

"I have tasted your brother's cooking." Cormac's smile was strained. "I am sure it will be an exciting meal."

"That is a diplomatic word for something that would put that look on your face," Bethany teased, eyes glittering.

"I think you will find eating his cooking less of an adventure than it once was," Fenris said, coming in after the 'visitors' and finding his own seat. "Or so I hope. He is used to our amenities at home." He wondered, for a moment, if he should go check on his husband, but Artemis had said his watching tended to make him nervous.

"We'll pray for the best," said Bethany as Amelda returned with a tray of wine and glasses made of fine enough glass that Anders knew he would end up breaking one before the end of the night. Amelda poured for each of them before taking her leave. "Thank you, Amelda."

Justice was an irritated grumble in the back of Anders's mind -- more like a cranky cat than an angry spirit -- but Anders took a sip of wine anyway. 

"I hear you arrived on camels," Bethany said, delicately picking up her own glass. "I hope the journey wasn't terribly difficult."

"It was only sixteen days. Nothing very serious. Certainly, we have made better time than we might on the water." Cormac picked up his glass in one hand and leaned the other elbow on the table. "I have made that trip, by sea. Your poor brother has heard all about the journey."

"Camels are much faster." Anders agreed, nodding. "You are... you look very much like your brother, Lady Amell. I heard of the Hawkes being good to look at, but I only had one brother to compare."

Bethany knew he was putting it on, for the servants, but she laughed all the same. "And you think Artemis and I are better looking than Anton? Oh, don't let my brothers hear that. There will be no end to it -- primping from one and weeping from the other."

"And the other two? I heard you were five, not three." Anders sorely wished he could be certain the servants were gone, for the night, but in a place like this one could never be too careful. Particularly since dinner hadn't made the table, yet.

"One is a bear," Fenris joked, swirling the wine in his glass. "The other punches bears. You are not missing much."

"Is that so?" Anders asked with a wicked smile. "I, myself, like bears. They are a... majestic species." He looked sidelong at Cormac and threw him a wink. 

"Majestic," Fenris nearly choked on the word. "That is not the adjective I would have used."

"You would use the same adjectives as my bear-punching brother, I suspect," Bethany suggested before primly sipping her wine.

"There might be some overlap between words, yes," Fenris replied, "but I am much less in the habit of punching bears. Which is fortunate for the bear."

Bethany chuckled. "And I'm sure the bear is grateful."

"I will admit punching bears sounds very dangerous," Cormac added, with a sly smile at Fenris. "But, how have you been, Lady Amell? I hope the wedding has not slowed your next publication too much. I am usually confused by your work, I admit, but the parts I understand are quite intriguing."

"I haven't picked up a pen in a month to do more than draft sketches of décor and lists of components, the occasional invitation or bit of politesse to important people I've never met, the astonishing list of requests and refusals to send to the kitchens... If I am not mad before the end of the honeymoon, I expect I'll be able to start work again, soon after."

"You expect to be out of bed so soon?" Cormac asked, the teasing clear even through the Antivan accent.

"My husband-to-be is firmly of the opinion that he is still a Chantry brother." Bethany's raised eyebrows said everything she meant about that.

Anders's wine glass paused halfway to his lips. "That must take a... lot of devotion," he said, words stilted both by his accent and by his inability to find politer words, "if he's marrying someone so lovely. But, he is the prince? Will he not need to... make other princelings?"

"I am certain Sebastian is considering his options," Bethany said with a weary smile.

Fenris chuckled softly to himself. "Perhaps you should throw a sausage party. I recall that bringing out a side of him that was less Chantry brotherly in nature, if towards the wrong Hawke."

"I don't think getting him interested in sausage, my brother's or otherwise, will help with the issue of producing an heir," Bethany said, eyes crinkled in amusement. To Fenris, she looked like Artie when she smiled like that.

"Perhaps not, but it might disabuse him of any... modest notions he may still have. Perhaps it would not be with you, but if he manages the feat at all, once he is more himself again, he can't say he won't because he would never. He already has. And then it is down to him trusting you to provide him with better guidance for those desires. Which apparently he has, at least some of the time." Cormac smiled and lifted his eyebrows as he took a sip.

"She does look very much like her brother," Anders said, nodding. He fought to keep a straight face, which was more difficult the more confused Justice became. "So much so that replacing one with the other would not be hard. Does he even like the brother, really, or did he just mistake this brother for the lady in the dark?"

"That is an excellent point my Ander friend makes. As charming and delightful as I find Artemis, after a few drinks, your loyal and devoted fiancé may just have been unable to distinguish between you. So! Maybe, assuming he was drunk at the time," which Cormac knew for a fact he had been, "all you need to do is get him a nice sherry and a room with only you in it."

"Failing that, try a corset," Fenris suggested, ears twitching at the memory of Artemis in that mint green number they had thoroughly debauched. "Or possibly a corset with the sherry, for maximum effect."

Bethany hummed in consideration, her wine glass amplifying the sound. "Would this be before or after the sausage party?" she teased.

"Well, with any luck, you'll have your own private sausage party," Fenris teased in kind before clearing his throat. "Speaking of, I hope my husband isn't running into too much trouble in the kitchen..." He wasn't sure how long dinner would take, and he tried to gauge how fast he should drink this wine. The more wine he had, the more likely he was going to slip and call someone by the wrong name. Or the right name.

"It is just a pudding," Anders said, setting his glass down. "Is that not what he told us? I am sure he will be done with it, shortly."

"I am somewhat intrigued by the opportunity to partake of a Fereldan pudding. I have tasted puddings from all over the Marches, but a Fereldan pudding will be a change of pace. I look forward to this culinary event." Cormac grinned and raised his glass. "To your brother, who I'm sure will be bringing us an excellent pudding in mere moments."

"To your brother, who has been very hospitable, to this point!" Anders seconded, picking up his glass to tap it against Cormac's. "A Warden is welcome anywhere, but I have rarely felt so welcome as here." And that wasn't even hospitable puffery. That was, he noticed, relatively true. The only places he'd felt more welcome, he'd been living in.


	63. Chapter 63

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artemis cooks a pudding. Nathaniel stumbles into a room with so many false faces it's nearly Orlais.

Nathaniel took a shortcut through the kitchen, hoping to nab some wine on the way through. Lady Amell was entertaining some guests, and the servants were bound to have the good stuff out. He needed the good stuff after that last meeting with Sebastian. He spotted the cook before he spotted the wine -- the man was too well-dressed and fidgety to be the usual cook, muttering curses to himself under his breath as he flit about.

Artemis finally noticed Nathaniel and jumped, dropping a spoon on his foot. "Maker's balls, where did you come from?"

"Upstairs," Nathaniel drawled, as he rifled the wine rack looking for something a little better than the bottle of last year's vintage sitting half-drunk on his desk, where Jenet had left it after lunch. 

"I'm --" He paused and took another long look at the cook. "Don't I know you from somewhere? You're not actually a cook, are you? Some... political function, maybe?" He held out his hand. "Warden Nathaniel Howe, one of Prince Sebastian's advisors. I'm sure we've met."

"Oh! Yes. I know you." Artemis shook Nathaniel's hand, eyes darting back to whatever he was cooking as though expecting it to explode if he wasn't paying attention. "Didn't you shoot Sebastian? And now you're his advisor? I can't decide if that's terrible or terribly fitting."

"If you have met Sebastian, then you know someone was bound to shoot him eventually." Nathaniel plucked out a wine that looked promising if a bit dusty. He raised an eyebrow expectantly at the cook. "Are you from Kirkwall then, if you know about that?"

"Ah, right. I'm being terribly rude. I'm Artemis Hawke, Lady Amell's older brother, and I'm... in the process of making sure I don't ruin this pudding."

"... Pudding." Nathaniel blinked a few times. "You can't ruin a pudding, it's pudding, for Andraste's sake."

Stepping over to the pot, Nathaniel grabbed a cleaner spoon from a rack and poked the contents a few times. "You're fine. Stop stirring it or it won't get the crisp edge. Unless you don't want a crisp edge -- I don't know. I'm Fereldan. My barbarian taste in food is apparently unpopular in the Marches."

Tempted as he was, he didn't steal a bite. The top hadn't quite started to firm up, but he wasn't going to disturb it, with the amount of stirring the thing seemed to have taken. It really did look like the poor man didn't know how to make pudding, and was trying to do it from a book. But, then, this was a nobleman, and while Nathaniel was also a nobleman, he'd been sent off to squire, which for some stupid reason had included learning to make journeybread, puddings, and roasted whatever you could catch in the wood. He'd stopped thinking of it as exceptional.

"I'm Fereldan too, technically," Artemis said, "so your barbarian tastes are in line with what I'm going for." He wrung his hands, resisted the urge to poke at the pudding any more. "And don't say it's impossible to ruin a pudding. I have managed the impossible." 

He smiled self-deprecatingly. This was easier with Orana around to reassure him that, yes, he had already added that ingredient and, yes, he had measured it correctly and didn't need to check it three more times.

Nathaniel shook his head. And this was one of Bethany's brothers, one of the men who had fought back against Meredith and the templars?

"If nothing else, that's a talent." He thought of all the times Anders had done the impossible -- almost inevitably impossibly bad ideas -- and followed them with just that: 'How do you keep doing that?' 'It's a talent.'

Anders... "You're Lady Amell's brother. Did you, by chance, know Anders? I met her other brother -- the one who was his lover -- in the Deep Roads, but that was years ago. Actually, that would have been a few months before I met you. I'm not going to ask if you know where he is. I don't want to know, but... you knew that silly asshole, didn't you? You must've."

Artemis laughed, running a hand through his hair and twisting at the ends. "Oh yes, I knew him. We lived in the same house for a while, before I moved in with my husband. Well. He lived in the basement, with his cats. Which are now my cats, actually."

Nathaniel chuffed, twisting off the seal on his wine of choice. "That's becoming a habit of his, adopting cats and then leaving them behind. My sister has his last one. She won't admit it, but she's gotten attached to the damnable thing."

"Well, I'm sure wherever he is, he's leaving behind a trail of furbeasts." Artie eyed the pudding, arms folded to keep from poking at it. "Does that look done to you?'

Nathaniel squinted into the pot. "I like it a little brown at the edge, but I'm not the one eating it. It's not runny and it doesn't smell burnt. It's definitely food, but at this point it depends on how you like your pudding." He glanced around the well-appropriated kitchen. "You haven't seen a corkscrew, have you? I'd rather not have to knock the cork into this one -- it's a Storm Age vintage, and Sebastian probably paid a merchant prince's annual profit for the bottle."

Artemis reached into a drawer and pulled out a corkscrew with a speed that was almost impressive. He offered it to Nathaniel with a wry smile.

"I take it you've already raided the wine rack?" Nathaniel asked, eyeing Artemis. Now that the man looked more amused than nervous, Nathaniel could see resemblance with his sister. Older brother, he'd said. Not her twin?

"Last night," Artemis answered as Nathaniel worked the cork out of the bottle. "I was worried about my... lover arriving here safely. Which he has! Hence my sorry attempts at cooking." Another nervous laugh and a peek at the pudding. "I think I'll quit while I'm ahead and bring it out. I don't suppose you'd want to join us?"

"I hadn't made any dinner plans..." Nathaniel looked at the bottle in his hands, now open. "I'm not sure this is really the right wine for pudding. Have you made anything else? No, of course not. A meal with friends isn't a state event. Look, let me grab some cheese and grapes and throw them on a board, so we have an excuse for my taste in wine."

He needed an excuse. He was a foreign nobleman joining a small family dinner of another noble family -- dragging in an open bottle of heart-stoppingly expensive wine without anything it went with was the sort of thing people would talk about for years to come, and Elissa didn't need that. Elissa who was off entertaining the Tevinter envoy over Orlesian chocolates.

Artemis wondered if inviting him had been the best idea, if the man ended up recognising Anders. But, then, they would run that risk at the wedding anyway, and Nathaniel had shot Sebastian in the shoulder to keep Anders alive. That had to count for something.

"Cheese and grapes are always an excellent idea," Artie replied, gathering up the pudding, "but I would not worry too much. My family is known for a much more questionable taste in alcohol."

He shouldered open the door and led the way.

Nathaniel shot a glance around the kitchen and grabbed the grapes out of the top of a basket of fruit and a wrapped block of some kind of cheese, dropping both on a board with a knife, before he followed Artemis through the door. Not the door that led to the dining room, for which he figured he was some degree of thankful, but the door to the lounge and drawing rooms, which meant this was even more informal and possibly smaller than anticipated. Maker, what was he doing?

He followed Artemis into the lounge and his eyes lit on the enormous blond with the equally enormous beard. He hadn't recalled that any Ander nobles had taken an interest in the wedding, but the addition of one was hardly surprising, and if the Hawkes were just picking up whoever happened to be in the hall for this dinner, it was even less surprising. 

What was surprising, though, was the elf. He knew the elf. The elf was burned into his mind for all eternity. But, hopefully, what happened in the Deep Roads would stay in the Deep Roads, because none of that trip was appropriate dinner table conversation.

The elf, luckily, was just as content to avoid eye-contact and apply himself to the wine in his hand, taking a longer gulp than was, perhaps, polite.

"I come bearing food!" Artemis announced, setting the pudding down on the low table. "With a Warden bearing more food!"

"Oh, Nathaniel!" Bethany greeted him, all smiles. "Are you going to join us? We would be honoured, wouldn't we?"

Anders bit his tongue to keep from saying anything, a politely blank look frozen on his face. Nathaniel had looked right at him, and there had been no spark of recognition.

"Thank you, my lady," Nathaniel said politely, setting down his own offerings. "Your brother has already kindly offered the invitation." He watched as Artemis sat down next to the elf, pausing to press a kiss to his cheek. Artemis had mentioned a husband. And a lover. Which one was the elf?

Nathaniel took the seat beside the Ander noble, noting the dark-skinned man in Antivan dress, at the end of the table -- of course, there had been rumours of Bethany's brother having an Antivan lover. The brother who wasn't the viscount, which he supposed left two. Three? He could never keep track of this family.

"Warden Nate Howe, out of Amaranthine," he said, offering his hand to the giant beside him. Were they all like this, up north? He supposed Woolsey was a bit tall, but not like this. Not like Anders had been. A dim flicker of horror lit in the corner of his eye as he realised the man didn't have the expected blue eyes, but a very particular shade of gold. One he'd seen before.

"Another Warden!" the man's Ander accent was thick, as he clapped Nate on the back with one hand, and shook his hand with the other. "Jannik Kasselmann, out of, well, Kassel."

The hand on Nathaniel's back pinched his shoulder sharply, and he knew he was right, but now was not the time to say it. "A pleasure. Is Weisshaupt as irritated at your outpost as they are at ours? You'd think the commander who slew the Archdemon would get a little more respect."

"Your commander is famous in the Anderfels. You know this, yes? There are little statues of her in all the markets. I sent one to her, but she said they made her too heavy between the shoulders." Anders, for it was definitely Anders, took his hands back and unwrapped the cheese.

Nathaniel plucked up a few grapes. "I would have loved to have seen the look on her face." He chuckled to himself as he pictured Solona making that pinched face she had when she was trying to look unamused. He suspected Zevran had kept the figurine, whether she wanted it or not.

"I did send her an invitation, you know," Bethany said, leaning forward to get a closer look at the pudding. She hadn't wanted to doubt her brother, but she was relieved to find that it actually looked like a pudding. If it tasted like a pudding as well, Bethany would have to send Orana a fruit basket in thanks. "I never did get a response, unfortunately, but I do hope she is able to come. I would so love to meet her!"

Bethany helped Artie dish out and pass around the pudding, and for all his smiles, her brother still looked nervous.

"She hasn't shown up for anything that wasn't a function of one of her offices in... well, since I've known her." Nathaniel shook his head and accepted a bowl of pudding before pouring himself a glass of wine. "They say Wardens only last about thirty years, but with the rate she's going, I'm not sure she'll make it fifteen. Still, her legacy's going to carry ages into the future. I still don't know how she slew an Archdemon and walked away from it. I've got a witness who tells me I need to drink more, every time I ask him."

He offered the bottle to Bethany. "And speaking of drinking more, you should have a bit of this, before it all disappears. A Storm Age bottle from Jader, of all places. Just over the Orlesian border, past Orzammar. Not really grape country, these days, but apparently it was, once."

"Orlesian wine?" The Antivan at the end of the table sounded terribly amused. "I suppose it is one of the few things Orlais does well. Wine, glass, and chocolate. Of course, to hear them, you would think they are the inventors of all good things. Myself, I have a taste for the whiskeys of southern Ferelden. The barbarians in the south do some wonderful things with their grain. And their young men, apparently." He reached out and ran a finger down the side of Artemis's face, fondly.

"That's because the young men drink the whiskey," Artemis replied, turning his head and teasingly clicking his teeth in front of that finger.

"Is that the secret?" Fenris asked with a chuckle. "Perhaps your brothers should have drunk more of the whiskey." He smirked at the brothers as he set down his wine.

"I'm telling Anton you said that," Bethany said with a wicked grin. "Though Cullen is of the opinion that he drinks enough whiskey already."

"As long as it's not cordial," Anders said, still with that thick accent. "I hear that can be devastating if too much is had."

Artemis's face turned a colour to match the wine. He stuffed his mouth with a bite of pudding to keep from saying anything embarrassing, while Bethany failed to hide her amusement behind her wine.

"I am remembering some terrible rumours about the Knight-Captain of Kirkwall and five too many glasses of cordial. Were any of you at that party? It seems everyone's second-cousin's wife's bastard son was there, but I have not found anyone in Antiva who was actually there, themselves." The Antivan smiled wickedly behind his wine.

"Oh, I don't know what you've heard, but he drank too much cordial at one of our parties, and fell asleep in the garden. Fortunately, my brothers and I were there to help him back inside. Nothing too scandalous, just too many drinks in a man who works much too hard." Bethany's eyes sparkled in amusement. Of course it had been one of their parties. In fact, she'd eaten cheese and watched him drunkenly make the best of Artemis -- Nathaniel was the only person at the table who hadn't been at that party. "That poor man -- now that he's Knight-Commander, he's almost never home. And with Anton the viscount, it's a miracle the two of them see each other at all."

Anders squeezed Nathaniel's thigh, under the table. "Maybe with so much wine, we should skip the cordial in the ... sitting room?" He glanced at the Antivan.

"They call it the drawing room, caro."

"Maybe we should skip the cordial in the drawing room, after dinner. Or maybe with so many handsome faces, we should drink extra cordial!" Anders laughed and presented both hands to cut himself a slice of cheese.

"I'm afraid that cordial and I don't get along any more," Artemis said, clearing his throat. "But I do have some of that Fereldan whiskey back in our suite." He tipped an eyebrow up at Anders, his foot 'accidentally' brushing Cormac's leg as he shifted.

"Ah, I have wanted to try this Fereldan whiskey!" Anders said with a wolfish grin. "Perhaps that will be our dessert?"

Nathaniel eyed the two of them, and he wondered if he should warn Artemis what he was in for.

"Well, before any Fereldan dessert is our Fereldan main course," Bethany cut in, looking terribly amused. "Which is to say, excellent work, Artie. This pudding is delicious."

Nathaniel decided the prudent course of action was to shut himself up with a bite of pudding. It wasn't as crisp on the outside as he liked, but it wasn't his pudding, and it certainly wasn't bad. Of course the only 'bad' pudding he'd ever had was burnt, and that was fine if you only ate the middle. He still wasn't convinced you could fuck up a pudding, but with the look on the Antivan's face, he wondered.

"You, amor, have made me a happy man," the Antivan said, leaning over to kiss Artemis's cheek. "I would never say I had doubted you, but this is so very much beyond my expectations. I am so very proud."

Something about that accent didn't sit right, with Nathaniel. It's not that it didn't sound like Zevran -- on the contrary, it sounded too much like Zevran. Not just Zevran talking, but Zevran really laying it on, for the entertainment of the room. Except this wasn't the sense he got from the man -- there were no extravagant gestures, no sly and knowing smiles to people who should be in on the joke.

Anders took a few bites. "It is a pudding!" he declared, smiling. "I know not what else you may have expected, but we were promised a pudding and this is very much a pudding."

Artemis beamed at the praise, and Nathaniel wondered just how hopeless the man was that he was receiving praise for a pudding. "I am pleased," Artie said as he reached for a few grapes, "and perhaps a bit intrigued by that wine."

Nathaniel passed his bottle down to Artemis. "You should try some before I drink the whole bottle."

"Not if I drink it first," said Bethany, holding up her cup. "This wine is delicious! What did you say it was? Storm Age from Jader? Perhaps I should take a closer look at what Sebastian has in his wine stores. Speaking of the dear man, how is he? I thought I felt the floor shake from his pacing."

She didn't need to look at Artie to know the look on his face at the mention of shaking floors.

Nathaniel sighed heavily, gratefully taking the wine back when it was offered. "There are a couple of Nevarran dignitaries who are monopolising his time. They are as well-meaning as anyone in politics, but he is getting frustrated. And you know how he gets."

"Ah, is he offering to invade Nevarra, now? You know, I'm sure an alliance with Orlais could be founded on less," the Antivan joked, with a mouthful of cheese.

"Who are you, anyway?" Nathaniel finally asked, looking down the table. Of all of them, only the Antivan hadn't introduced himself, and it was now halfway through the meal.

"Ah! How terribly rude of me!" The Antivan stretched a hand over Anders's plate. "Mack Kestrel, they call me, in the north. A good foreign name for a good foreign merchant. You'd be surprised the difference the right kind of name makes -- even more difference in some places than the right kind of family."

Nathaniel's eyes widened slightly and darted to Anders, as he took the proffered hand. He hadn't spent much time looking at the other Hawke brother, but that wicked hooked nose and those bright blue eyes -- he'd thought the other Hawke had straight hair, though, like all the Hawkes seemed to and bright red tattoos. But, Anders winked at him, conspiratorially, and he knew. Really, he should've known sooner, the more he thought about it, but his mind had been on other things. And now he was going to have to tell Sebastian he had no idea where Anders and that last Hawke had gotten off to, while they were staying in the palace. How long would it be before Sebastian noticed?

"Not what they call you in Antiva, I expect," Nathaniel replied, with a hint of a smile.

"No. In Antiva, they call him Brother Malkin," Anders chimed in.

"That was Rivain," Cormac corrected, taking his hand back with a suggestive twitch of his eyebrows.

"And in Tevinter, they call him much ruder things," Fenris teased. "But then, that's Tevinter."

The elf knew who he was -- who they were -- too... but then, why wouldn't he? Nathaniel tried not to picture the last time he had seen the two of them, the elf and the older Hawke, and he felt as though he had stumbled into some private joke. Everyone at this table knew who everyone else was, but they were still pretending in case the walls had eyes. 

"The things I call him are much more fun," Artemis added with a wink, one finger tracing the back of Cormac's hand. 

And that was enough to make Nathaniel stop and stare down at his pudding. They were brothers. Right. That was an obvious conclusion he almost didn't come to because of how convincing they were. That was at best disconcerting, but Nathaniel supposed he couldn't fault a man or two for good acting.

Anders's hand was on his back again, and he started paying attention halfway through what really was a typically Anders invitation to do something utterly disgusting with the rest of his evening, but somehow both more polite and more stilted than usual. And in that thick Ander accent that was going to take him forever to get used to. It wasn't the same as Woolsey's -- hers was out of Weisshaupt. This was something more common, he thought, and Anders wore it all too well.

"Perhaps you and I should chat in one of the drawing rooms, after supper," he suggested, dodging the issue of the invitation entirely. "There are, after all, two archdemons yet, and you and I should discuss their circumstances. I have some unexpected news from the south, on the subject."

"I can provide some unexpected news to the south, as well," Anders replied, chuckling as he glanced pointedly at Nathaniel's crotch, before picking up his wine again.

This was the most normal things had been since Nathaniel had gotten to the Marches, and he was intent on enjoying it as long as he could. Average food, exceptional wine, and Anders making utterly rubbish innuendo at the table. A normal spring evening. He dug his spoon into the pudding as the elf cracked another tasteless joke that had Lady Amell cackling into her glass.


	64. Chapter 64

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathaniel has some words with Anders. Elissa finds Jenet in the hall.

They didn't end up in the drawing room, as it turned out, but halfway across the palace, in Nathaniel's office. Anders opened his mouth to say something, as the door closed, but Nathaniel held a finger to his lips, tapped his ear, and gestured around the room. _Make sure no one can hear us._ It was something Anders should have thought of, but after a couple of years of relative peace, he'd gotten out of the habit of paranoid living. Nathaniel, however, had not.

A careful investigation and a few well-placed spells later, Nathaniel finally grabbed Anders by the front of his very nice Warden-coloured robes and shook him. "Are you out of your mind?" he hissed. "This is the wedding of the Prince of Starkhaven. That is to say, the man who is trying to kill you. He hasn't given that up, you know, and now you're here, and I know you're here, and I have to _lie to his face_ about it."

"Or you could not, and we could see who wins if he starts with me." Anders smiled prettily.

"Solona would kill me. Lady Cousland would kill me -- twice if you actually killed him. And if you did, then what? There are no more Vaels, and the circumstances surrounding that, which I have been informed you know very well, would mean that if you killed the prince it would be the death of the city. And your own." Nathaniel finally cracked a grin. "I thought you were past that."

"Past doing stupid things that could get me killed? Hardly." Anders kept on smiling, making no move to push Nathaniel away or to get his hands out of his robes. It almost felt odd to shrug off the accent after settling into it, and he had to remind himself what certain syllables sounded like in his normal voice. "I've just been doing them on a smaller scale the past two years, but that's really more Justice's fault this time. He does so enjoy glowing at chicken thieves."

Quietly, Justice assured him that, no, he wasn't particularly fond of glowing at chicken thieves and that he would, occasionally, still prefer to glow at something more meaningful.

Nathaniel let him go with a small push, barely enough to make Anders rock back on his feet. "You're going to start an international incident," he said with a dry laugh and a shake of his head. " _Another_ international incident, and Bethany only just brokered peace."

"It's the Marches," Anders noted with a shrug. "If I can turn it into an international incident with Orlais, what's changed, really?"

"With Orlais. With you still dressed as a Warden." Nathaniel's hands uncurled and he shoved Anders back.

"Because I am still a Warden." Anders laughed and rubbed his face as he stumbled against a chair. "It's like they say -- you can leave the Wardens, but the Warden never leaves you. I'm still one of Solona's agents, just like you. The difference is I'm further north."

"The difference is you collapsed the _Kirkwall Chantry_!" Nathaniel's voice started to rise, and Anders leaned forward and cupped a hand over his mouth.

"Don't. You're the one worried about us being heard. Don't give them a reason." Anders's eyes gleamed in that way they did when he used to get drunk and yell about templars. "But, it needed to come down. I saved the people, Nate. The people were more important than the corrupt institution housed in a former magister's mansion. And yeah, I know. But, I'm much less enthused at the idea of magisters, now that I've spent years in the company of a slave. The system is shit. The system is always shit. And if I live long enough to save the south from shit, maybe I'll go after Tevinter, too. But, you and I, Nate, we've shaken hands with things that used to be men. We've shaken hands with what happens if you don't break the system, when it goes bad."

Nathaniel rubbed his forehead with his thumb and forefinger and regarded Anders through his fingers. "You sound like you're planning something," he said, dropping his hand to pin Anders with a look. "You don't need to justify what you did in Kirkwall to me. It happened, and now we're dealing with the consequences. And by 'we' I don't mean you, since you've been off Maker-knows-where. But if you're planning something, _again_ , here and now, I will need to punch out every last one of your teeth."

Anders held up his hands, palm-out, the picture of innocence. "The only thing I'm planning is to visit Bethany's wedding and to visit with a couple of friends I have missed. Well. I might have a few other plans, but those involve you, me, a bottle of whiskey, and the nearest horizontal surface."

"I might punch out your teeth anyway," Nathaniel muttered.

* * *

* * *

The door was very well seated -- enough so that neither of them heard the soft sound of someone running into a door they expected to open.

Jenet ran a hand through his hair and straightened his cuffs, as he looked both ways down the hall, glad no one had seen that. But, Howe had shut himself in a room with the Warden representative and _locked the door_? That was bound to be something important. Two Wardens in a locked room was either talk about the blight or something out of one of those tavern songs about Wardens. The ... less-heroic tavern songs. And of course, growing up a Cavin, in a long tradition of bullheadedness, he'd learned the words to every one of those before he was twelve.

All the same, not something he'd mention to anyone who didn't need to know.

He turned away from the door, meaning to check with the butler and the head chef and whichever other of the servants might still be expecting orders to arrive -- he had a list -- when he spotted Lady Cousland coming up the hall. Speaking of 'need to know'... He rather hoped she wouldn't ask.

Her entire demeanour changed when she spotted him, her gait slowing with more swishing of her hips than was strictly necessary. "Well, well, if it isn't my favourite Kirkwallian export!" she greeted him, and Jenet hated how easily the woman could fluster him.

"Good evening, Lady Cousland," Jenet replied, angling himself to retreat down the hall, when, to his horror, she made as though to walk past him towards the door he'd only just walked into. He stayed put instead, smiling politely.

Elissa raised an eyebrow at him. "While you make a lovely decoration, Jenet, you make a less useful door. May I check in on my fiancé?"

"I, uh. I'm afraid he's occupied at the moment, messere. A terribly delicate political affair." He tried not to cringe at his own word choice. "Perhaps later? I will tell him you asked for him."

"There's no need. I will only be a moment." Elissa looked more bemused -- and possibly _a_ mused -- than put off, and Jenet didn't know what to do short of pretending a dragon was eating the palace while he ran off screaming.

"The door's locked, Your Ladyship." The words tumbled out of Jenet's mouth. "I really think he isn't to be interrupted, right now. It's... something about the Wardens. I saw them go in, as I was coming down the hall, and thought I'd just duck in and drop these off --" He held up some papers and quickly tucked them into his vest. "-- but they are already engaged, it seems."

"A Warden?" Elissa's eyes lit up, and she smiled wickedly. "Engaged, I'm sure... I'll have to pester him for every last detail of that ... engagement ... later." She pinched Jenet's cheek, gently. "And what about you, hmm? Do you think you can keep the Teyrn's Proxy occupied for an hour or four, while this engagement sums up? I play a fine game of diamondback."

"Your Ladyship, I, ah..." Jenet froze. He wasn't getting out of this one. What was it his father always said about cards? When you're dealt a bad hand, don't play to win, play to confound. "As long as it's not strip diamondback, I'm sure neither of us will mind losing."

"And why would I mind losing at strip diamondback, Ambassador?" Elissa asked, still smiling.

"You wouldn't, but I might. The servants would find out. My father would hear. It would be an international incident." Jenet blinked innocently and shrugged his shoulders.

"Please. I flirt with three international incidents every day before breakfast." Elissa slipped an arm through one of his, and Jenet found himself commandeered. "But I'm willing to table strip diamondback, at least until the second glass of cordial."


	65. Chapter 65

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jenet is hungover. Elissa and Bethany are merciless over breakfast.

Jenet knew the tablecloth was white, but he didn't remember it being that particular shade of blinding, reflective white. He squinted as he took a seat, offering a grimacing smile to the prince and his fiancée. Across from him, Lady Cousland looked suspiciously chipper, her smile as blinding as the tablecloth. She was clearly no worse for the wear.

Nathaniel took one look at him and nudged the pot of coffee in his direction. "Rough night?"

"Ask her," Jenet groaned, tipping his head in Elissa's direction. He considered the merits of drinking straight from the pot, only to decide that that would end in it all coming back up. 

"Was the cordial not so cordial to you?" Elissa asked, clearly fighting not to grin.

"It was possibly the most incordial cordial I have ever had the misfortune to drink," Jenet muttered, pouring himself a cup. "And I mean that as no reflection on Your Ladyship."

"You didn't." Nathaniel shot Elissa a pointed look.

"How could I? The man has a faithful and loving relationship with his trousers." Elissa clapped a hand to her chest in mock astonishment.

" _You'd_ like to have a loving relationship with his trousers," Bethany quipped, passing a plate of cakes over the table.

"Why, I'd never!" Elissa protested, taking two cakes with different fruit and passing the plate to Nathaniel. "You know I've just the one love! I might like to have a scandalous engagement with them, though."

"I'm sitting right here," Jenet grumbled over his coffee, squinting into the platter of eggs on the other side of his plate. Still too bright, he decided, and looked back into his cup.

"I'll get you something for those incordial difficulties, after breakfast," Nathaniel promised. "I know a man who has just the thing. Your, er, ambassadorial difficulties, on the other hand? You're on your own, there. Take care. She's terribly wily." He shot a wry smirk at Elissa.

"She left me with no escape," Jenet said, massaging his forehead. He wanted to glare at Nathaniel. It was his fault he'd been cornered in the first place, but then he'd just promised a cure for his suffering. Or a something for his suffering. Best not to compromise it. 

"But luckily you remained faithful to your trousers through this ordeal," Bethany said, cutting up a slice of sausage. "I have heard a great many rumours cordial compromising a man's relationship with his pants." She wondered if Cullen still blushed about that. If Artie still did, he probably would.

"Is this why you have warned me against it in the past?" Sebastian asked, a smile tugging at his lips.

"If anything, I think that would be an argument _for_ cordial," Bethany replied, batting her eyelashes. And there was Sebastian's blush. Bethany really ought to be keeping score.

"If that's an argument for cordial, perhaps you should keep it in your suite," Jenet groaned, pouring himself some more coffee. One of the things he couldn't fault the Marches for -- there was always a good Nevarra City roast somewhere within rolling over and groaning distance, even if he'd had to make it all the way to a state breakfast, this morning. Insofar as there were state breakfasts, anyway. "I would be greatly appreciative if the prince's close relationship with his own trousers was still proudly demonstrated outside your suite."

Sebastian choked on a bit of muffin.

"Your concerns have been noted, Ambassador," Bethany managed, struggling not to laugh. As if Sebastian would be caught anywhere, pantsless, including in his own rooms. "I don't think you have much to worry about on that front."

Sebastian tapped his nose and pointed at Bethany, as he took a sip of coffee to clear his throat. "I assure you, there will be no shortage of trousers on my person."

"But, will you promise them on the correct parts of your person?" Nathaniel asked, reaching around a floral display to take the platter of eggs out of Jenet's view. "I have heard rumours of trousers as neckwear, not on yourself, of course, which I think we can agree is not the intended use."

"I disagree," Elissa said blithely. "It all depends on whose legs are in the trousers when they're around your neck."

Sebastian choked again, and Bethany patted his back to make sure she wouldn't have to put 'death by muffin' on his memorial.

Nathaniel declined to comment and instead motioned at Jenet. "Could you pass the eggs? Or at least slide them in my general direction. I'd prefer if my eggs weren't seasoned with vomit, and you're looking a little green."

Jenet nudged the plate of eggs in the appointed direction, eyes closed and breathing carefully steady. He swore he could see the tablecloth through his eyelids. "I'm fine. I will not vomit." That was as much encouragement to himself as to the table.

"That's definitely the best news I've heard since I got up, this morning," Bethany said, cheerfully, offering Jenet a basket of plain rolls. "These might help a bit, if you can choke one down."

Jenet opened one eye to take the basket and then realised he was looking right at one of the people he'd meant to speak to, the night before. "Your brother," he said, setting the basket where the eggs had been, and taking a roll for himself. The smell didn't make his stomach perform acrobatics, so that was something at least.

"I have four. Which one?" Bethany asked, before another slice of sausage went into her mouth.

"Carver. He and Knight-Commander Cullen are due to arrive, later today. After lunch, I suspect, unless river travel is worse than usual." Jenet nibbled carefully at the roll, between sips of coffee. Coffee-flavoured roll. Now that was something he and his stomach could get behind, at least for now.

Bethany raised an eyebrow. "Cullen and not Anton? He's leaving his husband unsupervised?"

"He had some political engagement," Jenet explained. Bethany was, at least, easier to look at than the tablecloth. "He was curiously vague about it in his last message, but he assured me -- and through me, you -- that he would be on time and not to worry."

"Whatever he does," Bethany replied, "please don't let him swing down from the balcony. That was all well and good for his own wedding, but it won't quite fit with the theme of mine."

"What's this?" asked Elissa, leaning towards Bethany. "We're talking about your brother the viscount?"

"Indeed," sighed Sebastian between sips of coffee. "I was half convinced he had run off to Rivain and left his poor fiancé at the altar, when he swooped in, like something out of one of those ridiculously Orlesian novels about pirates and maidens." At the look from Nathaniel, he hurried to clarify, "Not that I read any of those. I am simply familiar with the genre."

"I love Orlesian novels!" Elissa exclaimed, holding out her cup so Jenet would share the coffee. "They're so utterly ridiculous! Nothing works like that, but they're just delightfully naive!"

Bethany cleared her throat, cocked her head at Jenet, without taking her eyes off Elissa, and helped herself to some more sausage.

Sebastian had the good sense to wonder what she said about him when he wasn't looking.

"Nothing like a hard-bodied, brooding Fereldan savage, though," Bethany joked, slicing a bit of sausage. "That's one thing they get right. I really only like the ones with Fereldan noblemen and their dogs. Leave it to Orlais to reduce the entire nation to barely-literate dog-herders who burst out of their trousers every time they flex."

Nathaniel choked on his coffee, grabbing a napkin to blot what he'd dribbled down his chin.

"It's true," Elissa said with mock seriousness. She patted Nathaniel's back as he coughed. "Fereldan men are much less devoted to their trousers, or so I've found in my travels."

Sebastian cleared his throat awkwardly, setting down the sausage he had been about to eat. "As long as the Fereldans in attendance at our wedding keep a cordial relationship with their trousers through the ceremony, I will not pass comment."

"Please don't mention cordial," Jenet groaned, resting his forehead on the blinding tablecloth.


	66. Chapter 66

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver, Merrill, and Cullen arrive, without Anton.

Jenet had started to look and feel somewhat better before the afternoon. Nathaniel's friend had come through with a potion, and Jenet wondered if he shouldn't lay in a supply of them, in case of emergencies -- just another thing the new prince likely hadn't considered when engaging in festivities on this scale. He was glad someone had, though.

Sorting through the afternoon's papers, he wondered when the prince would finish filling out the household staff. Understandably, a difficult consideration, given the state of things at his arrival, but also something that really needed to be handled. This wedding was stretching the limits of the palace's limited staff to the extent that foreign nobles -- which sort of included himself -- were pitching in far below their station. Perhaps he'd suggest hiring Fereldan refugee families, entire -- they were less likely to have ties to other noble houses and were more likely to become loyal if treated well -- which was something the royal family of Starkhaven, such as it was, could afford.

And then he looked up to see one of the grooms about to knock on his open door. 

"Who is it?" Jenet asked, already getting to his feet and pulling on his jacket.

"Templars, Messere. From Kirkwall."

Jenet pressed a coin into the young woman's hand and headed down to the entry. Sers Cullen and Carver, if he wasn't mistaken.

Jenet found the new arrivals in the entry hall, moving stiffly as though they were only just remembering how to stand and to occupy space. The two men looked tired and tight-faced, but the elven woman between them was all good cheer and smiles. Jenet prayed the grooms hadn't mistaken her for a servant. She was far too well dressed, even in her travel gear, to be one and they had already made that mistake with Messere Hawke's husband. Jenet had half-expected someone to lose a kidney that time and would rather not repeat that.

"Welcome to Starkhaven, Knight-Commander, Knight-Lieutenant," Jenet greeted them as he approached. He paused, sifting through the guest list and what he had heard Lady Amell say about her family and friends back in Kirkwall. Carver and an elf. Something about Carver and an elf stuck out in his mind... Jenet pulled up short. "Are... you wouldn't be Lady Merrill, would you?"

Before she could answer, the dark-haired man, who he assumed to be Ser Carver, wrapped an arm around her waist and scowled down at him. "Yes, she is. What of it?"

"It is an honour, Baroness." Jenet's eyes widened and he bowed. "You are most gracious to attend."

Carver blinked over Merrill's head at Cullen and then looked back at Jenet. "What?"

"Bethany has been a very good friend since I came to Kirkwall," Merrill said, with a smile. "I wouldn't miss this for anything, even if it is a Hawke wedding. They're very exciting, you know. One of her brothers swung in from the roof and Ser Cullen almost stabbed him. Another one had a magister crash the party and try to kill us all. I do hope this is the, er, less frightening kind of exciting. More like the first and less like the second. But, it's been a wonderful adventure."

Merrill's smile widened, which Jenet hadn't imagined possible. "And who are you? You look like someone else. Should I know you?"

"Ambassador Jenet Cavin," Jenet introduced himself, offering a hand in case someone might want to shake it.

Cullen moved first. "Cavin? You're Bran's son, right? He mentioned he had a son studying in Starkhaven. I just... thought you'd be younger. Or maybe you are younger. But... Ambassador? Congratulations, either way."

"It's my father who doesn't look his age, which I suppose bodes well for my future looks," Jenet said. "But my thanks. It is an honour to meet you as well, Knight-Commander! Lady Amell assures me you're shaking things up in Kirkwall and in a good way."

When Jenet withdrew his hand from Ser Cullen's, Merrill jumped in to shake it as well, and then that left Carver reluctantly completing the circuit, if with less enthusiasm than the lady elf. Jenet got the impression that Carver did everything with less enthusiasm than the lady elf. 

"Kirkwall needed a good shake," Carver grumbled. Cullen's laugh was a thin, tired thing.

"I would love to hear all about it," Jenet said, "both the shaking of the city and what fell out, but you must be exhausted from your journey, and here I am, holding you captive in the entryway! Let me show you to your rooms."

Merrill kept up a good patter, as they walked, talking about how they'd discovered the Undercity and rebuilt a lot of Lowtown and the Alienage, and Jenet had questions about everything. By the time they reached the hall Lady Amell's family was staying in, the two of them were deep in conversation about slaying demons. While Jenet had never met a demon, he was quite sure he was extra glad of that fact, as he listened to Lady Merrill go on.

"Ah! And here's Messere Kestrel, who is staying with Lord Hawke and his entourage." Jenet noted, as he unlocked the first door and handed the key to Cullen. "You and the Viscount will be over here, and the Baroness and Knight-Lieutenant will be just across the hall."

"Messere ... Kestrel, is it?" Carver knew the name. He knew it because it was the name in their Chantry records. Malkhazi Kestrel was listed as the father of both Hawkes born in Highever.

"I find myself at a loss, Ser Templar. Have we met?" Messere Kestrel held out a hand. "Perhaps we should meet. This does seem to be a wonderful place for ... making new friends, yes?"

Son of a bitch. Carver squeezed his hand, perhaps a bit too hard just to keep from punching him on reflex. He almost didn't recognise his brother, with the stupid accent and without the stupid tattoos, and he might have been content to assume he was a distant cousin on their dad's side, if he hadn't been staying with Artie.

Carver unclenched his jaw long enough to introduce himself. "Pleasure to meet you. I'm Knight-Lieutenant Carver. You are a good friend of my brother's, I take it?" He would call Cormac an idiot later. And he would deny that he was glad to see said idiot.

"Oh, yes, a very good friend of your brother's. And very much looking forward to meeting the rest of his brothers." Cormac's lecherous grin didn't make it up as far as his eyes. "Knight-Lieutenant, you say? You are much more than the average templar, then. And who are these delightful people with you, Knight-Lieutenant?"

"Knight-Commander Cullen. Kirkwall," Cullen offered, along with his hand. There was something faintly familiar about the shape of the man's face, but a lot of Rivaini faces had similar features. Of course, you could say that about anywhere that wasn't Ferelden or the Marches, really. Both of those had been invaded way too many times.

Cormac shook the offered hand and offered a dazzling smile. "Ah, the viscount's husband! A pleasure to shake your hand. Let us be sure it is not the only pleasure we have, yes?"

"As long as you don't want him for a game of Wicked Grace!" Merrill chimed in. "The Knight-Commander isn't very good at it. But, neither am I! Sometimes, we play together. I keep hoping we'll get better with practise!"

"Ah, what a delightful young lady! And so well dressed!" Cormac offered his hand again.

"I'm Merrill." She beamed as she shook his hand. She could have sworn she knew him already from somewhere but was relieved he seemed not to know her name either. Maybe it was just because he looked so much like Cormac. "Are you Antivan? Oh, I haven't known many Antivans! I would love to know what Antiva is like. My clan and I have travelled to so many places, but I've never been to Antiva..."

As Merrill was speaking, Jenet smiled and murmured to Cullen that he would be available if they had any questions. "Once you are all settled in, Lady Amell would like you three to join her for tea, at your convenience."

Cullen thanked him, and Jenet slipped away. There were still some plans that needed some last minute tweaking.


	67. Chapter 67

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three of the Hawke brothers are reunited over accusations and face-punching.

There was shouting in the hall, even if Anders could just barely make it out. It wouldn't be Cormac. He'd just gone out to get a bottle of wine and some biscuits. Had to be some of the other nobles staying on this hall. The Orlesians, probably. And then the door of the suite opened, and Cormac staggered back in. "Has anyone got a potion? I just ran into our favourite templars, in the hall."

The door bounced off the wall as a very large figure followed him in, and Justice perked up as Anders stood, towering over this templar.

"I thought this was a celebration, not a brawl," Anders boomed, squaring his shoulders.

Behind him, Fenris already had his sword in hand, and had ducked into the shadow of an armoire.

And then the figure stepped out of the doorway and into the light of the room.

Fenris stepped out, still holding his sword, if slightly less threateningly. "You know I almost cut your head off. What is it with you and assaulting innocent doors, instead of knocking?" Assaulting Cormac, on the other hand, was almost always a matter of guilt, as far as Fenris was concerned. He'd probably done _something_.

"And I'm about to assault him _with_ a door, if he doesn't explain himself," Artemis growled, putting himself between his brothers.

" _Me_?" Carver snapped. "I need to explain _my_ self? What about him?" He jabbed a finger in Cormac's direction. "Or him, for Maker's sake?" And at Anders. He stared a bit too long at Anders, just to make sure that was actually him. The beard and the hair were easy to explain, but had the man gotten even taller? "Have you all gone mad? Am I the only sane person in this family?"

"Do not confuse sanity with stupidity," Fenris said, reaching for the door. He paused spotting a couple familiar -- if confused -- faces and offered them a tight smile before shutting the door on them. "If you're going to rant about this, do it where you won't be heard."

"And don't shout, you moron," Artemis hissed. 

Still glaring at and looming over Carver, Anders reached for Cormac, fingers already glowing with healing. "Come here."

Cormac tipped his face up. "Yeah, I'd have done it myself, but he had to smite me to get a hit in. As usual. Is that why you became a templar, Carver? Got tired of not being able to punch your brother in the face?"

"One of many reasons," Carver spat, fists clenching and unclenching by his sides. "What were you thinking? Why are you here at all? Either of you!?"

"Aww, you almost sound like you care," Cormac purred, eyes closed as Anders stopped the bleeding under his skin.

"I care that you're suddenly a moron, and I'm concerned it might be genetic!" Carver snapped. "Am I suddenly going to turn into an idiot at thirty-five? Do I need to plan ahead?"

"You're already an idiot," Cormac shot back. "No waiting necessary. Anything else you want to yell about, while I'm standing still?"

"You let people think you're our brother's lover! You just _hit on me_ in the hall!" Carver started to get loud and Anders gave him a sharp look.

"Of course I did. What would happen if anyone else in this palace figured out we were related? What's the fastest way to make them think we're not?" The corner of Cormac's mouth tipped up, not quite enough to be a smile, because that would still hurt.

"It's how he's been sending letters to me to not arouse suspicion," Artemis said, folding his arms across his chest. "It's also how Bethany addressed her wedding invitation to him. We thought we might as well continue with this facade, and it's been working. Do you plan on punching Bethy and me too? Because good luck trying with Bethy."

"He's the one who's going to get himself killed!" Carver visibly wrestled with his temper, jaw clenched and face red, but he at least kept his voice down this time. "And you couldn't think of a better 'facade' than a _lover_? That is disgusting!"

"Why not?" asked Fenris. He still hadn't sheathed his sword. "It keeps him close by so your brothers can stay together without arousing suspicion. I agree that coming here at all was... a risk, but you draw unwanted attention by punching him in the hallway."

"My astoundingly handsome husband has a point," Artemis said. "If you're worried about someone finding out who he is? _Don't punch him!_ "

"Honestly, I think it's a reflex for him at this point," Anders said, prodding Cormac's cheek and nose to check for swelling.

"At least we can write it off as either disgust at being flirted with or concerns about the continued sanctity of your brother's marriage." Cormac shrugged as best he could, trying not to dislodge Anders's hands from his face. "We're staying in the servant's chamber, if you're worried about how four of us would fit in that bed. I don't think even the two of us would fit in that bed, the way he's gotten used to that Tevinter monstrosity we keep at home."

The bed was, of course, larger than any bed in the servant's chamber, but it was still a little shorter than Anders might have liked.

"I'm not worried about you _fitting_ in it," Carver snarled. "Anton knows about this, too? Anton's all right with this?"

"I certainly hope Anton's all right with this -- I'm here as his business partner." Anders fluttered his fingers and smiled.

"You..." The light went on behind Carver's eyes. "He got the mine when Cormac left, and then he took on a partner, and this whole time, I've been yelling about another Hubert, and it's been you all along? So, he's been funding your holiday in the far reaches of Thedas?"

"Hey, our 'holiday' has put decent medicine in reach of the town I grew up in -- the town my parents still live in." Anders looked surprisingly calm, as he finally moved his hands away from Cormac's face. "We're doing philanthropic work in the Anderfels."

"What he means is Anton knows a lot more than you're giving him credit for," Cormac pointed out, moving toward the mirror to make sure his tattoos were still covered.

Carver looked back and forth between his brothers, between Anders and Fenris, looking for someone with reason to appeal to. He threw up his hands. "Am I the only one with any sense in this family?"

There was a tentative knock on the door. "Hello?" came Merrill's voice. "Is everyone all right in there?"

Anders wiped a hand over his face and tugged at his beard. "You're the only one in your family who just made a scene. And now you get to explain to Merrill."

"And possibly to Cullen," Fenris added. "He was out there, too. Was anyone else in the hall?"

Carver sighed, deflating somewhat. "No. I waited until Jenet left."

"There's two Orlesian families represented in this hall, as well, so however much of that could be heard through the walls -- they're pretty thick, thankfully." Cormac opened the door, smiling broadly. "Baroness! Knight-Commander! Come in, come in! I'm certain your friend did not mean to leave you standing in the hall."

He stepped back and held the door open for the two of them.

"Please, you should come in, before the Orlesians think there is a problem," Anders said, quietly. "I think Ser Carver has some things to explain. You cannot wander the halls punching Antivan merchants, Ser Carver."

"What in the void...?" Cullen sighed and edged into the room, nodding to Artemis and Fenris. "It's good to see you both arrived safely, and I'd apologise for your brother, but he's _your_ brother." He gestured futilely, but accepted the cup Fenris offered.

Merrill followed. "Should I close this?"

"Please," Cormac responded. "The last thing we need is Orlesians inviting themselves in."

"Why are we on a hall with all these Orlesians?" Carver demanded, after a moment's consideration.

"Because this was the Empress's suite," Fenris replied. "I understand it was a last-minute change, for which you can thank your sister."

Carver's lips thinned. "Bethany. Put you four in the Empress's suite. Of course."

Cullen eyed the tall Ander next to the Antivan. The man was even taller than Anders, somehow, and his hair colour was lighter, but there was something distinctly familiar about his nose and those honey-brown eyes. Sure, most Anders would share some features, but seeing him next to the 'Antivan' with the Rivaini face? 

He turned to Artemis and Fenris. "Either you have something to tell me, or you are worryingly consistent in the types of... friends you attract." He gestured at who he had to assume were Anders and Cormac.

"As Carver is worryingly consistent in whom he punches," Artemis grumbled, ignoring a black look from Carver.

"Who has not a type?" Anders asked, shrugging. "But, I am not here for the pretty young lord. I am here for business with the viscount. But, I am a man, like any other, and I can be distracted." He laughed, easily.

"I thought I heard the pretty young lord's taste was elves, no?" Cormac blinked, his manufactured surprise almost believable. "This is what brings us together. An appreciation of elven culture. And I am certain the baroness could grace us with some stories. Come sit, dear lady. Coffee? A glass of wine? I fear we may only have the one glass -- I was on my way for more."

Merrill took the offered seat and studied the Antivan. "You do look a lot like his brother. But, Cormac has less... hair. And more tattoos."

Cormac sighed and sat on the edge of the bed. "All right, how do we keep Sebastian from noticing?" The accent was gone in a breath.

"Is it really you?" Merrill asked, jumping up again. "I didn't think you'd come!"

"We shouldn't have, if it's this easy to tell who we are." Cormac shook his head and held out an arm to give Merrill a hug.

"That's because we know you," Cullen said, "and because of the, ah, context. Honestly, it was seeing you two next to each other -- and next to your brothers -- that made me see it. Individually, and without Carver punching you, I might not have noticed. I might, however, have been a little concerned about Artie picking a lover who looked so much like his brother." He laughed to show he was joking, and it took Artie a moment to respond with his own nervous laugh.

Merrill squeezed Cormac a moment more before pulling back and nudging him in the side. "Did you flirt with Carver out in the hall?" she asked, voice shaking with suppressed laughter.

"Yes," Carver snapped, folding his arms and hunching his shoulders. "Yes, he did. Why do you think I punched him?"

"Oh, I never know why you punch him half the time," Merrill replied. "As long as it bounces off his shield, I just smile and go with it. But it didn't this time. At least now I know why you dropped a Smite on us in the middle of the hall."

Carver's scowl faltered, shifting into something sheepish. "Shit. Merrill, I didn't -- It didn't occur to me that you'd be caught in it, too, at that distance."

"That never occurs to you, Carver. It's also why you're in front, when we go into the Undercity." Merrill hugged him anyway. "You're lucky you're such a good sworder."

"More than I needed to know about my brother, thanks!" Cormac groaned and leaned back.

Cullen turned an awkward shade of pale pink and looked away from the couple beside him. "The smite also helped," he admitted. "The only reason it would make sense is if he knew he was punching a mage."

Cormac rolled his eyes. "Thanks, Carver. How did you know, anyway? Just brotherly intuition?"

"No, you ass. You took Dad's name. You're almost using the name you have in the Chantry records," Carver huffed, trying to cross his arms and stopping because Merrill was still under one of them.

"Hey, see? I exist. You should see what mum was going to name me before we moved, if you want a real laugh." Cormac shook his head. "Did name me, I guess, but dad was always a little superstitious."

"Wait, how many names do you have?" Cullen asked, blinking.

"How many places did we live?" Cormac shot back. "It was always close, but never quite the same. Not until Lothering, anyway. We got to be real people, there." He shook his head. "So, if we don't want Sebastian to notice, we shouldn't stand next to each other? Easy enough. We both know enough people. I should probably do something about my face. Something else about my face. Like this, I look just like Dad."

"At least Sebastian's never seen your dad," Merrill replied.

"And I suspect Sebastian will have quite a few other things on his mind," Cullen added. "This is a royal wedding, and the guest list is enormous. If he's not looking to see you two, I doubt he will. Still... it's probably best to give your congratulations directly to Bethany and avoid Sebastian where you can."

"Hear that?" Anders said to Cormac. "I have permission to avoid Sebastian at his own wedding! I am generally in favour of avoiding him even on non-special occasions."

Cullen shook his head fondly. Whatever he thought of them being here, it was good to see them alive and well after all this time. "Who else knows?"

"Anton, Bethany..." Artemis quirked an eyebrow at Anders. "Nathaniel?"

Anders nodded. "He threatened to punch me as well, so it's becoming a theme."

"Punching the healer is never the best decision," Fenris noted, choking back a laugh.

"You'd think he'd have figured that out after the time he nearly sliced off my nipple, but the idea's always been a bit of a rough sell, with him." Anders shook his head. "It's not the only stupid thing about him, but he's usually pretty bright. Brighter than Sebastian, for sure."

"Are you sure you're not just saying that because he means to kill you?" Merrill asked, picking up the glass of wine from where it sat on the table. "I didn't spend very much time with him. And he was always so upset about his family -- understandably."

"No, he really has all the common sense of a nug, sometimes. Most of the time." Anders laughed and sat down, pulling out a chair for Cullen. "Nathaniel was telling me about all the household problems, last night. And the political nightmares he's kept averting, because Sebastian really does belong in a cloister, somewhere. It would be really nice if the world worked the way he expects it to. I mean that. I'd actually get to sleep more often."

"That was me, once," Cullen said, with a sigh, taking the seat and finally setting down his cup. "And then Kinloch Hold happened."

"Happened to both of us," Anders reminded him. "Just you had more demons and I had more templars, and frankly I'd have been much happier with demons. At least you can tell a demon no."

"Until you can't," Cullen reminded him.

"Yeah, but then nobody gets pissed off if you set them on fire."

"He has a point," Merrill said, nodding. "People are usually quite happy if you set demons on fire. Except in their homes. They're quite upset if you set demons on fire in their homes."

Cullen exchanged a weary look with Fenris. "And she's part of our demon-hunting crew."

"Well, how do you think I found that out?" Merrill tutted.

"Please don't go burning down homes, Merrill," Artemis groaned, "even if there are demons in them. We just built those!" Maybe, while he was replanning the sewers, he should incorporate a sprinkler system in case of any demon-related combustion. 

"Well, the point is," Anders said with a soft chuckle, "Sebastian is in over his head. Nate -- and Bethany -- have their work cut out for them. Luckily Bethany has the head for this sort of thing even if he doesn't."

"Remember those words when she turns Starkhaven into an empire," Carver muttered. He was still scowling and sullen, but he was looking less red in the face.

"Hmm, you're right," Anders muttered. "She might be too good at this. Maybe she and Sebastian will average out to something more mediocre."

"Mediocrity might be a benefit, at this point in time. Things have been a bit more exciting than entirely necessary, in recent years." Fenris raised an eyebrow at Anders and cleared his throat.

"I protest! That is not my fault!" Anders crossed his arms. "It's Meredith's fault. It's Meredith's doing. I just cleaned it up."

"You just blew it up," Cullen argued, poking Anders in the arm.

"You're the one who asked for a distraction." Anders looked smug. "You can't tell me that wasn't distracting."

"That was a little more excitement than I had in mind," Cullen sighed, picking up the coffee, again. "How did you even do that? Do I want to know?"

"I know some dwarves who didn't know what I was doing. They were more than happy to explain." Anders shrugged. "None of them were local. You don't have to worry about that. But, I met some good people, while I was on the run."

"You're still on the run," Carver pointed out.

"I can't possibly be. I have a very nice house and a village that thinks I'm fantastic. Do I sound like a refugee, to you?" Anders's next smile was so smug Carver almost leaned over the table to deck him, on principle.

"You still _look_ like one, with the beard and the dyed hair," Carver grumbled. "If you have to come to my sister's wedding in disguise, you're still on the run."

"This is just my new look," Anders assured him with a wink. "If you grow out your hair, you could ask Fenris to braid it for you too."

"And Fenris will say 'no'," Fenris growled. "Dealing with the mess you call hair was traumatic enough."

"Saying you're on the run or not does not make you any less of an idiot for coming here," Carver replied. He eyed Fenris. "And I am not growing out my hair."

"Good," Fenris hummed, though Merrill pouted.

"Sit down, Carver," Artemis suggested. "Have some coffee. Resist the urge to punch somebody for a few minutes. You'll feel better."

"I would feel better if these two idiots weren't about to ruin my sister's wedding," Carver grumbled, kicking out a chair and slouching into it.

"Well, then, you should feel great," Cormac responded, wrapping himself around Anders. "Because we're not about to ruin _my_ sister's wedding! She invited us, herself, you know."

"And if you had any sense, you'd have declined. You'd have found a reason not to be here. She invited you to be _nice_." Carver looked like he might get back up.

Cullen leaned back and caught Fenris's eye. "I apologised for _my_ brother, right?"

Fenris nodded.

"Good. Because I'm not apologising for Carver. He's a Knight-Lieutenant, and I'm sure he should be able to manage that on his own."

"I don't have anything to apologise for," Carver barked, before shooting a look at Merrill. "Except for smiting Merrill. I'm sorry. You know I'd never do it on purpose."

"Unless there were demons," Merrill suggested.

"No, that still probably wouldn't be on purpose. Smite doesn't work as well on demons." Carver shook his head and glared around the table. "But, I'm still not sorry for anything else!"

Artemis caught Cormac's eye. "Don't you miss this?" he asked cheerfully. "It's like one of our family dinners at home, only with less food and wine to shut him up."

Carver started to stand up again, but Merrill put a hand on his knee. He grumbled and sat back as Artie stood to get him coffee.


	68. Chapter 68

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Viscount has uncovered an old conspiracy. And now it's time to start cleaning up the pieces.

A moment here or there wouldn't matter much, Anton figured, paging through the pile of letters on his desk. The meeting would be soon enough, and then he'd know if the lady had any knowledge of her father's doings. But, it looked like everything had been tidied up quickly and kept silent, all these years. A page lifted out of his hand and fluttered across the desk, with a breeze from the windows, and he leaned after it, catching the edge, just as a sharp pain whipped across the back of his neck. He rolled off the side of the desk, paying no mind to the rack of quills and the letter opener that came with him, and reached up to snatch the rest of the letters before they could scatter. Folding the generation-old letters, he tucked them into his waistcoat and tried to figure out what had just happened.

The cold trickle down his back finally registered as something other than fear -- he was bleeding from the back of his neck, which meant he'd been hit by something. But, the only place that could have come from was one of the windows, and his windows were relatively awkwardly angled to the rest of Kirkwall. If someone had climbed up to make the attack, surely they would have come in to finish the job, but he heard nothing outside of the fluttering of better weighted pages and the creaking hinges of the heavy windows. So, someone was still out there, either on the wall or on -- what was high enough to give that kind of shot? The surveyor's tower for the new Chantry construction, he realised -- which would be visible right out the window on the other side of the desk. And that was an intentionally stable point, which meant they might still be watching, to make sure he stayed down.

No harm in sitting on the floor for a couple of hours, he decided, since the meeting was probably cancelled. Only Bran and Lady La Chapelle had known for certain that he would be here, at this time, and if Bran wanted to kill him, Anton had no doubt he'd have been much less subtle about it.

Speaking of the demon, those hurried footsteps sounded suspiciously like Bran's. When they stopped in the doorway, Anton peered around the edge of the desk, making sure that was, in fact, Bran and that Bran wasn't equipped with a weapon.

It took Bran a moment to consider looking down. "Are we having our meetings on the floor, now, Messere Hawke?" he asked. His shoulders sagged in something resembling relief, and Anton wondered just how loud his tumble to the floor had been. "I trust you've heard that Lady La Chapelle won't be joining us?"

"I had my suspicions," Anton replied in a low voice, all by half of his face hidden behind the desk. "In the interim, I find myself in need of quills."

"Certainly, Messere. Is there anything else?

"Yes. I need you to pretend I'm dead and go get Aveline."

Bran's brows knit. "I--"

"Stop talking to a dead man," Anton hissed. "I think they're still watching!"

Bran bowed his head. "Aveline it is," he said, slowly backing away.

"And close the fucking door!" Anton hissed after him. As the door clicked closed, he slumped back behind his desk.

Moments later, he could hear the enraged clank of armour approaching -- and he really could hear the rage. The door slammed open and Aveline appeared, fury turning to confusion and back to fury as she saw Anton still sitting. He waved. She glared.

"Pretend I'm dead and drag me out of here. I need to be dead, if they're watching," he explained, quietly.

"What--" Aveline barked, looking horrified and confused, as she tended to, when Anton started talking in ways she assumed people weren't meant to in front of the guard captain, but Anton cut her off.

"Not here. Out there. There's no windows."

"What did you steal this time?" Aveline grumbled under her breath as she stormed into the room and grabbed Anton by the shoulders. He took a sharp breath and she took a closer look at her hands. "You're bleeding."

"Yes. Perhaps surprisingly, I had noticed. Someone thinks they killed me. Get me _out of here_ ," Anton demanded as quietly as he could manage, and within moments of colourful swearing, Aveline dumped him in the anteroom, pulling the door shut, behind them.

"What the Void, Anton? Who did you piss off?"

"The La Chapelles," Anton replied, holding up the packet of letters in his less-bloody hand. "It's serious, and I'm not the first viscount they've killed. Of course, I'm not actually dead, but let's not give anyone any straight answers until I get back from my sister's wedding, hmm? I want to see what they do. I want to see who expresses their sympathies, before I show my very alive face in public again."

Aveline rubbed her forehead where a headache was starting. "So, what, you plan on being dead until then? And we have to pretend like you are? I have my skills, Anton, but acting is not one of them."

"Well, you're rather good at acting pissed at me. Just go with that. Be pissed at me and pretend it's because you're pissed that I'm dead."

Aveline started to argue, only to think better of it. "That I could do. _Or_ , if you have evidence that this was the La Chapelles, I could go take care of them now."

"My dear, fearsome Aveline," Anton said, prodding at his neck to check how bad the bleeding was. Another shirt ruined, that was for sure. "What I lack in evidence, I make up for in gumption." At Aveline's darkening look, he added, "By which I mean, I'm getting there."

Aveline hummed unconvincingly. "I'm tempted to arrest them all anyway, just in case," she admitted, eyeing the blood on Anton's hand. "We need to get you out of here. How bad is it? Do you need a potion?"

"It's behind my head. I'm not sure I've gotten a good look at it," Anton muttered, still prodding at the edges of the torn skin. "But, it's still bleeding, so let's go with yes."

Bran stepped behind Anton and batted his hands away, for a closer look. "You need a healer," he decided after a moment. "How are you still alive?"

"Magic." Anton grinned and winked. "You didn't think my siblings got it all, did you?"


	69. Chapter 69

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris's condition becomes stranger still.

Anders woke to the flickering blue glow in bed next to him, which was unusual, since the flickering blue glow in bed usually was him. A moment passed while he sorted that out, and realised that Fenris was making small, unhappy sounds, between him and Artemis. Assuming being squished between two mages was either too warm or too magical, Anders nudged Cormac back and edged away.

But, the sounds continued, along with the glow, which never seemed to stabilise, and Fenris curled up on himself.

Anders put a hand on Fenris's shoulder, gently. "Fenris?" he whispered. "Hey, shh, wake up. It's all right."

And Fenris did wake, then, growling as he slammed his elbow into Anders's face and leapt back against the headboard in a wary crouch, brands still lighting, intermittently.

Cormac rolled out of bed, reaching for a glaive that wasn't there, still not sure what was happening, as his feet hit the ground. "What--?"

"Mmrph?" Artie grunted, blinking awake, one hand patting the space where the warm body next to him had been. The twitchy glowing of the curled-up elf drew his attention, and he sat up. "It's okay," he said to his brother and Anders, motioning them back. 

Artemis shifted back so he was sitting next to Fenris, close but not touching, leaning forward to get a look at Fenris's face. He was used to the glowing in bed, the glowing and the nightmares, but this sputtery, uneven blinking was new. "Fen, love, come back to us. The Orlesians will wonder what's going on with the lights."

Fenris let out a ragged breath, and he blinked, taking stock of where he was. The sick feeling in his stomach was still there, but not the hands that had put it there. Slowly, he uncurled from his ball, seeing first Artemis and the hand his husband stretched out to him, waiting for his permission. Just a dream. Fenris took Artemis's hand and squeezed it to ensure he was real, letting Artemis fold him into his arms. With his face pressed to Artemis's chest, he didn't notice he was still glowing.

Artemis looked at Anders over Fenris's head, eyes wide. "Is this supposed to be happening?" he asked, indicating the glowing with a look.

Anders shrugged expressively, still healing his face. "Is anything that happened to him supposed to happen? If you haven't seen it before, probably not. You'd know. I don't usually see him sleep."

Justice pushed forward, faint crackles of blue along Anders's arms that he slapped at, but Justice would not be so easily reined in. The spirit wanted to help, wanted to see this made right, to see someone punished for making this happen. But, as Anders reminded him, everyone responsible was dead.

"Not now, pretty thing," Cormac whispered, sliding back onto the bed and wrapping his arms around Anders. "Let him finish waking up."

Surprisingly, that worked, and Justice calmed at the thought that he would be able to do something soon, even if it wasn't now. Fenris might be a few minutes, but minutes, not weeks or years, like so many things.

"Does this happen often?" Anders asked, pulling the blanket up over Fenris and Artemis, dulling some of the light. "Not the flashing, but ..." He raised his eyebrows.

Artemis gave Anders a wry look. "I doubt any of us sleeps peacefully," he said, rubbing soothing circles into Fenris's back. "Considering what he's seen..." He shrugged, and Fenris grumbled something inaudible against Artemis's skin. "I found out fairly early that it wasn't a good idea to wake him up in the middle of one."

Fenris huffed. "I'm still sorry about that," he pulled back enough to mutter, ears twitching. Anders noticed that Fenris still hadn't apologised for elbowing _him_. "But, again, I will point out that at least I didn't throw you through a wall."

Artemis answered with a strained laugh. "Fair point."

"There were times I was glad dad had the whole house made from stone, but waking my brother up unexpectedly was never one of them." Cormac chuckled and curled up against Anders's side.

"So, don't wake up either Messeres Fartemis unexpectedly," Anders drawled. "At least I only had to learn about one the hard way."

Artemis hummed. "There's a joke in there about 'hard ways' that I'll come up with when I'm more awake."

"I would rather you didn't," Fenris sighed. He blinked down at his hand, the flickering finally catching his attention. Staring at his hand, he tried to will it to stop, and it dimmed but did not disappear. Panic was a cold feeling in his stomach.

"Justice is worried about you," Anders offered, quietly.

"Worried what, that I'll hit you in the face again?" Fenris snapped, the glow on his face and neck strengthening and stabilising for an instant. "Because I might."

"No, worried that you're not well." Anders shook his head and held up his hands. "It's hardly the first time you've hit me in the face. I prefer that you not hit me in the face, but that's because I have a very nice face and I'd like it to stay that way. He's trying to find a way to kill Danarius again -- as if we didn't kill him enough the fist time, which, to be fair, maybe we didn't."

Fenris grunted, halfheartedly, trying to shake off the cold dread creeping down his back. He couldn't make it stop. He didn't seem to be passing through anything -- the brands weren't staying lit long enough or with enough intensity for that, but he still couldn't make them stop glowing.

"You're still flickering," Anders pointed out, unnecessarily. "Does that happen often?" He thought Fenris might have been hiding it from Artemis, since he hadn't yet said anything about his own condition. Either way, it was news, now.

"No," Fenris admitted, watching the play of light over the sheets and Artemis. "This is a new problem." He was gathering quite a collection of similar problems, but this wasn't something he could hide.

"And you don't seem to be passing through anything," Anders noted. "Which is likely a good thing right now."

Fenris had to agree. "I am more concerned about how upset Bethany would be with me if I arrived at her wedding like this."

"I'm sure it will right itself before then," Artie assured him with a confidence he didn't feel, tracing one hand up the flickering lines of Fenris's arm. "If not, we'll hide you somewhere she won't notice. Does it hurt at all?"

"Your sister's wrath or the glowing?" Fenris teased.

"We all know how painful Bethy's wrath is. I meant the glowing." Even with a teasing smile, Artemis was trying and failing not to look concerned.

Fenris shook his head. "No, it does not hurt, exactly. It does not... feel like much at all." Which probably was not good either. He suspected he was supposed to be to feel his fingertips.

Anders picked up that nuance, but covered it. "Okay, not hurting is good. I just want to check a few things and make sure there's nothing else unexpected going on, here -- that you haven't damaged any of the lines or anything. I don't know that breaking a line would do this, but considering how poorly it went the last time that happened..."

Fenris muttered something incomprehensible but bitter and dropped his foot into Anders's lap, nuzzling under Artemis's chin.

"I'm with Justice. Can we kill Danarius again?" Cormac got out of the way, flopping onto the bed behind Anders, to watch around his leg. "I'd say we should kill Meredith again, for good measure, but that was hard enough the first time."

"Yes, I would prefer to avoid a repeat of that situation." Fenris chuckled against Artemis's neck, as Anders's hands moved over his leg and foot. That he could feel, if only a little at a time. The warmth and the faint tingle of healing were clear, and he slowly realised he was cold -- must be cold, for Anders's hands to feel warm. He pulled the blanket up higher, over his shoulder, to gather it under his chin.

Noticing the way Fenris tugged at the blanket, Artemis tucked it more evenly around him and rubbed warmth in Fenris's back and arm. And that was odd, Artie noticed. Usually Fenris was an elfy furnace. 

"For the record," Artie said to his brother, pausing to blow Fenris's hair out of his mouth, "I think I remember asking Bethy if she could resurrect Danarius just so we could kill him better. But apparently cubification isn't something anyone can come back from. Which is actually something of a relief, I suppose."

Fenris shivered. "I appreciate the sentiment, Amatus, but I would prefer Danarius to stay dead anyway, no matter how thoroughly you killed him the second time. I remember you killing him thoroughly enough the first time." He smiled lazily against Artemis's throat. Danarius was dead, long dead, and Fenris was in his mage's arms. Even with another mage touching his foot, it was enough to make his nightmare seem distant and inconsequential.

"Your toes are like ice," Anders muttered, squeezing and rubbing warmth into them with one hand while the other soothed flickering tattoos with healing.

"I'm going to get you a cup of tea," Cormac decided, yawning and getting up again, "or maybe some hot wine. I don't want to wake up to cold feet on me. Or the shrieking that comes with cold feet on someone else."

"Wine," Fenris and Anders said, at the same time. They looked at each other in surprise.

"With honey," Anders added.

"Okay, honey for you." Cormac dragged on a fur-lined robe and headed into the servants' quarters to heat two cups of wine.

"No, honey for him," Anders called after him. "You need it," he assured Fenris, still massaging warmth and healing into his leg.

"I do not usually put honey in my wine," Fenris muttered, feeling the need to argue even if he was too comfortable to have a reason. Maybe that was the reason.

"You also don't usually blink like a lighthouse warning," Anders pointed out. "You're cold, in a warm bed. A glass of hot, sweet wine will do you good."

Cormac returned with a large, full tankard that he was carefully heating with his hands. "Benefits of mages. Warm anything, at any time."

Fenris hummed instead of answering, shifting in his cocoon of mage and blanket just enough to take the hot wine from Cormac. His numb fingertips could feel the cup's warmth if not its texture, and he held it close, cradled to his chest. "Thank you," he remembered to say after a sip. The sweetness was different but not terrible, and it felt soothing down his throat. 

Fenris could get used to this, having all these mages tending to his needs, and after a little wine and warmth, he felt relaxed. He had gotten used to the blinking and only noticed it again after it stopped, sputtering out into nothing. He could feel his mage's sigh of relief.

"Has it stopped?" Anders asked, examining the non-glowing foot in his lap and what else he could see of Fenris outside the blanket. "I don't see a light-show through the blanket any more."

"It has stopped," Fenris assured him, even as he peered under the blanket to check. He had the terrible thought that the brands might never work again, but he had other tools, and he would rather that than have them lit when he didn't want them to be.

"Lyrium," Anders huffed, shaking his head. "I've been reading his research, and I haven't seen anything about _this_ , before. If I could take it all out without killing you, I'd do it, if that's what you wanted, but... That's a lot of lyrium. I mean, you shouldn't be alive with all that in your body, and if I take it out, you'll definitely die. _That_ , at least, is mentioned in the research."

"Yeah, let's avoid killing my brother's husband." Cormac slid back into bed, still wrapped in fur, and curled around Anders's back again. "You feeling a little better, then?"

"A little," Fenris admitted. "And yes, let's avoid my death. I think that would defeat the purpose."

"For what it's worth, I went through months of spontaneous light-shows, with Justice. I actually can relate." Blue light crept along Anders's hand and he lifted it away from Fenris's leg. "He wants to be sure you're well. Do you mind?"

"Does he not know, by being you?" Fenris asked, brow wrinkling.

"It's a different sort of perception. It's like asking if food is poisoned and checking by smell versus checking by taste. They're close, but they're not the same." Anders paused. "And none of that means he's going to lick you, unless you want more licking, in which case it could very easily be arranged."

Fenris chuffed. "I am not sure I am in a mood to be licked, but perhaps later." He glanced down at Anders's hand and nodded, finishing his drink and handing it to his mage so he could curl back under his chin.

Anders took that as assent and placed his glowing hand back on Fenris's leg, half fearing that the lyrium would start flickering again. It didn't, and his relief mingled with Justice's when they both decided that Fenris was well enough for the moment. There was certainly something wrong, something he honestly doubted he could fix, but they had done all they could for now. 'For now' was a concept Justice still struggled with, but he had learned, at least, to trust Anders's judgement.

"Is your spirit reassured?" Fenris asked, eyes closed and nose pressed to the hollow of Artemis's throat, voice craggy with the promise of sleep.

"He worries still -- we both do -- but yes."

Fenris hummed without opening his eyes, and Artemis took that as his cue to hand the empty cup to his brother and manoeuvre them both until they were lying more comfortably, still ensconced in the blanket. 

"Get some sleep, Fen," Artie said.


	70. Chapter 70

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anton arrives, at last. Breakfast ensues. Many sausages are had, some with buns.

It was the middle of the night, when the last guest arrived from Kirkwall, and Jenet could only hope he didn't look too rumpled from sleeping in the most comfortable chair in his office, for a few hours. The viscount had finally arrived. He hurried across the entry hall to where a man stood in a mud-splattered cloak, chatting casually with the doorman.

"Bran!" the man said, blinking at him. "What are you doing here? I thought I left you in Kirkwall -- and how did you get here before me? I rode post horses the whole way!"

That answered any questions Jenet might have had about how he looked after that nap. "I didn't think my father was coming to this event, however much he might have liked to."

"You must be Jenet. You really do look just like him." The man offered his hand. "Viscount Anton Hawke of Kirkwall, Lord Amell."

"I assumed as much." Jenet took the offered hand. "Ambassador Jenet Cavin. How is my father, anyway?"

"Quietly plotting to murder the entire noble council, I'm sure. Myself included. Myself first, most likely, after this last week." Anton laughed his way into a yawn. "Long time on a horse. Sorry."

Jenet fought the urge to yawn in sympathy. "It must have been a difficult journey. I understand you left later than most of the other Kirkwall guests?"

"Likely all the other Kirkwall guests, unless there's some Orlesian trying to outdo me in the fashionably late department." Anton offered Jenet a cheeky, if tired, smile. "Politics. You know how it is. It never rests, and so neither do you!"

"Ah, well, I should think you can rest _now_ ," Jenet said, remembering his duties. "Your husband, I am sure, will be pleased to see you've arrived safely. A family wedding overrules politics."

"A family wedding _is_ politics, particularly between these families," Anton replied. "My husband, on the other hand... He certainly overrules politics." His tired grin took on a more lascivious tilt, and Jenet cleared his throat.

"Right. This way, then. Your luggage should be waiting for you. The Lady Amell would like you to join her and the rest of your family for breakfast, if you are in the shape to."

"I will be there, whatever shape I am in," Anton assured him as he followed Jenet up the stairs. "It's my little sister's wedding day! Maker willing, that day will only come once."

* * *

* * *

Breakfast was not, as some had expected, another small, private affair, for the Hawkes, but instead a full state occasion, if a somewhat less formal one than the reception would be. Bethany, unlike her brothers, had elected to have her wedding before the sun could get high enough to melt the guests, instead of late enough that the festivities could continue after dark. The long tables in the Great Hall were spread with dishes and the guests were seated in accordance with their importance, with only the highest ranking among them seated at the family table.

Fenris eyed the Tevinter envoy suspiciously, as she passed the fried eggs to Anders, who sat not with Cormac, but on Anton's other side. The side not occupied by Cullen, of course. Merrill and Carver sat to the envoy's other side, and Merrill chatted happily with her about being a noble mage in the south, while Carver tried to pretend he could hear none of it, his attention on Nathaniel, Elissa, and Jenet, across the table from him. Artemis sat sandwiched between Cormac and Fenris, himself, of course, and Elissa alternated which hand she ate with, to keep one hand alternately on Nathaniel's or Cormac's thigh, while she flirted mercilessly with Jenet, over Nathaniel's head. On Fenris's other side sat the Thalia Aurum, Margravine of Ansburg, and beside her, a space had been left open for the Teyrn of Gwaren, who had not responded to the invitation at all, but Solona was just that way, Nathaniel had assured them all.

"I think this is an excellent sausage," Cormac said in his terrible Antivan accent, holding a slice up on the end of his fork, as he eyed Elissa. "But, I think I know of a sausage Your Grace might prefer."

"Oh?" Elissa purred, one hand on her fork and another under the table. "You must know then that I am a great fan of sausage. I always enjoy trying a new exotic flavour."

To her other side, Nathaniel stuffed his mouth with eggs, his sausages so far untouched. At least the ones on the table. 

"I, too, am a great fan of sausage," Artemis said in an aside to Fenris, waggling his eyebrows.

"I am well familiar with your voracity, Amatus," Fenris replied with a smirk, stealing a slice of sausage off Artemis's plate just to get him to make that offended look.

Across the table, Anton watched Artemis reach for Fenris's plate in retaliation, only to be fended off handily by Fenris's fork. "It's just like the family dinners at home," Anton said to his husband, reaching back to comb down his hair, making sure it covered his newest scar, on the back of his neck. "Just with a longer table and a Grand Cleric."

"Are there always this many sausage jokes at your family suppers?" Nathaniel griped, as Elissa swiped a sausage from his plate. "Is this something I'm going to have to become accustomed to, with the addition of Lady Amell to the household?"

"Don't worry," Elissa assured him, slicing the swiped sausage into bite-sized chunks. "I'm sure she won't be ignoring your sausage for long."

The table froze, everyone aware of the implication, and at the wedding breakfast for the lady in question.

"Oh, has he got the good sausage, then?" Bethany asked, reaching over Jenet's plate to swipe the other untouched sausage from Nathaniel's. "I was sure someone must be hogging all the good ones."

At the far end of the table, to Sebastian's right, Charade whistled encouragingly as she leaned over the table to pass a tureen of beans and gravy to Anton.

Bethany winked at her cousin, as Elissa replied. "Oh, he's always got the best sausage. Keeps it all to himself, too."

Anders considered saying something about Nathaniel and sausages and another thing about Artemis and sausage-hoarding, only to decide that either comment would end in someone getting punched. Instead, he stuffed a whole sausage into his mouth and smiled across the table at Fenris, cheeks bulging.

Gamlen leaned forward to address Nathaniel from the opposite end of the table. "In case that doesn't answer your question, yes, there are always this many sausage jokes."

Across from Gamlen, the Grand Cleric daintily buttered her toast while Sebastian whispered cringing apologies. She seemed more amused than insulted, however, and readily passed on the beans in Anton's direction.

"Stop hogging the jam, Carver, and pass it this way," Bethany said imperiously. Carver stopped scowling in Cormac's direction long enough to obey.

The Tevinter envoy smiled up the table, brushing her blond hair out of her eye with the back of one hand. "But, it just isn't breakfast without sausage jokes, Warden!"

Anders choked on the sausage before he managed to swallow it. "I like her," he managed, somehow remembering the accent he grew up with. "Maybe I will ride home with you, instead of the Antivan. At least to Val Dorma. Fill in my international relations for the month."

"Warden Kasselmann, please do not turn your questionable charms on Magister Tilani. I'm sure we don't need an international incident before the ceremony even begins," Jenet scolded from the vicinity of Bethany's elbow.

"At least it will be an enjoyable international incident," the magister replied, eyeing Anders with a bit of a sparkle in her eye. "Please do continue to ply me with your questionable charms, Warden Kasselmann."

A few words drifted up from the quiet conversation Sebastian was having with the Grand Cleric and Gamlen. "Scandal... mayhem...!"

"They are young," the Grand Cleric reminded him, "and they were not promised to the Chantry, as you were. Who is to say they do not honour the Maker in their own way, and what better beginning for a new love than at the brightest point in someone else's?"

"I'm not sure that's _love_ , Your Grace," Gamlen muttered.

"On the contrary, uncle," Artemis said, "I think you'll find we take our love of sausage very seriously." Then he remembered whom Gamlen was talking to and cleared his throat. "And our... love for the Maker, of course. Your Holiness."

"Indeed," Fenris said with a small smile, "I can assure you my husband makes many appeals to the Maker."

Artemis pinched Fenris under the table, while across from them, Anders tried to chew and laugh at the same time.

At the other end of the table, Bethany watched Sebastian's face change colours. "Are my brothers being terrible again, pumpkin?" she called out, casually reaching for her coffee.

"Brothers? Plural?" Anton asked in mock offense. "I assure you I have been the Paragon of Politeness thus far."

"That's just because you haven't finished your first cup of coffee yet," Carver huffed.

"I assure you he is usually anything but polite before the first cup," Cullen piped up.

"I'm usually not out of bed, before the first cup," Anton reminded him, "and even if I'm not polite, that's never stopped you from finding me just as delightful."

"Buns?" asked the Margravine, offering a platter of rolls to Cullen, whom she had pegged as being an easy target from the moment he took his seat.

"What?" Cullen squawked, blinking owlishly, before his eyes settled on the platter. "Oh, yes. Bread. Thank you." He took a roll for himself and another for Anton. They looked to be dotted with bits of sour plum, which he thought would be lovely with the Antivan sausage and a little butter.

Beside him, Anton gazed consideringly into the tureen of beans before carefully stirring it and passing it back to Charade.

"How are things in Tevinter?" Anders asked, curiously. "I have heard there are some people stirring up rumours the Old Gods will return."

"They're idiots," Maevaris assured him, patting his hand. "Darling idiots, sometimes dangerous idiots, but idiots. The only way the Old Gods are coming back... well, that's your line of work, isn't it?"

Anders barked out a laugh. "Yes, and I prefer they make my job easier by staying where they are."

"No desire to become the next hero to defeat a Blight?" Maevaris asked. "Become the Hero of the Anderfels?" She batted her eyelashes. "No, I imagine one Blight is more than enough for anyone's lifetime. I am sure the Warden-Commander would agree, were she present."

Sebastian passed the beans back to Charade, confused when she smiled and stirred them before passing them back towards Anton, this time from the other side of the table. "Aren't you going to eat any?" he asked.

"Oh no, my plate is already quite full," Charade answered cheerfully, leaving Sebastian even more confused.

As Artemis reached across the table to hand the beans to Anton, Fenris took the opportunity to land a sharp pinch on Artie's ass. The mage squeaked and narrowed his eyes at his husband, whose expression betrayed nothing.

Anton squinted into the beans as he received them, though, and his expression was one of absolute puzzlement. Blinking a few times, he set the beans aside, for the moment.

"Pass the sausage, would you?" Merrill asked Nathaniel. "Which kind was the good kind? I'd like to try it."

"The Fereldan kind," Cormac said, grinning wickedly, "and you're already sitting next to that, but I suppose the one from across the table is good, too."

Carver almost stood up, but surrounded by four mages, he never made it to his feet. It was an act of will not to smite them all, but he would be sleeping on the couch, if he laid out another smite that caught Merrill. 

Across the table, Nathaniel rested his forehead against one hand and offered the platter of sausages with the other. "Try the Antivan," he muttered. "I understand it's very good with the rolls."

"Buns," the Margravine corrected, tucking a curl of pale golden hair behind her ear. "But, sausage is usually better with buns. Particularly firm buns, with just a little give, like the ones they make in Wycome."

"I can't say I've tried any Wycome buns," said Elissa with a suggestive look up the length of Cormac's body, "but I've been eyeing the Antivan sausage all morning."

Artemis tried not to choke on a combination of coffee and laughter. He leaned around Cormac to say, "The Antivan sausage comes highly recommended, with whatever buns you have on hand."

Carver stared down at his plate, taking deep, calming breaths. He held his fork tighter than he needed to, however, and his cheeks turned a splotchy red.

"Indeed, I've always enjoyed Antivan sausage," Elissa replied, plucking a sausage from the platter Nathaniel was still holding out. "But I can't say I've tried any Tevinter. Do they go well together?"

"Tevinter sausage is delightful," Maevaris informed her, leaning forward conspiratorially, "but, truly, dwarven sausage is incomparable. It was my late husband introduced me to the savour and heft."

"Ah!" Cormac smiled brightly. "A connoisseur of dwarven delights! Perhaps you would be so kind as to assure Lord Hawke's pointy-eared husband that I am not, in fact, a tall dwarf!"

Fenris tried to figure out how to kick him under the table without hitting Artemis.

"Oh, but I wouldn't know! Perhaps you are simply a very tall dwarf. I have yet to experience any of your delights." Maevaris sipped her coffee and batted her eyelashes at Cormac, who only had one hand visible above the table.

"I'm certain a sampling could be arranged, if you so desire. You don't mind sharing, do you, caro?" Cormac asked, nuzzling Artemis's ear. Beneath the edge of the tablecloth, his hand cupped between Artemis's thighs, squeezing gently.

Artemis hid his change of breathing behind a soft chuckle. "Of course not," he assured Cormac. "I know for a fact that Antivan and Tevinter sausages complement each other nicely. I would hate to deprive anyone of that."

Out of the corner of his eye, Fenris saw the shift of Artemis's hips, and a furtive glance in his husband's direction showed him what he suspected: Cormac's hand out of sight. He smirked, watching the way Artemis fought to keep his expression neutral.


	71. Chapter 71

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuance of the grand sausage breakfast.

In the midst of the conversation, the sausage platter made its way around to Sebastian, who looked a bit ill as he eyed it. He passed it on to the Grand Cleric, who happily took another helping.

"So, Ansburg," Anton started, tipping his chin at the Margravine, as he sliced a bit of fruit, "how'd that thing with the Tantervale apples wind up? Did they settle?"

The Margravine laughed and shook her head, eyes crinkling at the corners, even deeper than the rest of the lines on her face. "Are you kidding me, Kirkwall? It's Tantervale. It's all posturing and puffery, until someone blows too hard and loses an eye. Always so convinced they've got the right of it, just because of the Grand Tourney. Goat's piss, as they say in the south."

"Blows too hard and loses an eye?" Maevaris chuckled. "That's colourful."

"It could be accurate under certain circumstances." Anders tipped his head from side to side as if considering it.

"Only if they're blowing _you_ ," Nathaniel snapped, and then slapped a hand over his mouth. "Shit, I'm sorry. That's... not you at all. The cut of your shoulders and the blue... I thought I was somewhere else. I thought you were someone else." He looked sick and dizzy, and he hoped it came off as that he'd just mistaken Anders for himself, rather than that he'd just admitted to blowing Anders -- which he hadn't. Ever. Or at least he didn't think he had. Either way, that wasn't something he wanted going around the parties for the next year, but after that, it probably would be. He needed something else. "I had a friend, years ago. There are still legends in the brothels of Amaranthine."

"Ah, that friend," Elissa said, nodding at a memory. "I've heard the stories. Are you sure they're not exaggerated?"

"More sure than I needed to be," Nathaniel muttered. Perhaps it would be best if he stuffed more food in his face and stopped talking.

"I see his sausage has left quite an impression," Anders said, still with that thick accent that did nothing to hide how amused he was. "But, Warden sausage tends to do that, or so I hear." He winked at Maevaris, who smiled contemplatively.

"It wasn't the Warden part that left an impression," Nathaniel grumbled, before stoppering his mouth with a bun.

Artemis squeaked, covering the sound with a cough. To his amusement, Anders saw that one of Fenris's hands had disappeared as well. He wondered if his legs were long enough to join in and tease one of them under the table, but with his luck, he would end up accidentally fondling Elissa. While he doubted either of them would mind that, Nathaniel might get a bit crankier than usual.

Sebastian squinted up the table, suspiciously. Nathaniel really did look terribly surprised and badly shaken, even though the other Warden seemed amused at his mistake. It wasn't the first time Sebastian had wondered at Warden Kasselmann, but it was the first time he was fairly certain that wasn't the Warden he was looking for. He thought Anders would be much less amused at being outed in front of him, but Warden Kasselmann hadn't even paused for breath, before chasing the end of that joke. Perhaps he really was just getting cripplingly suspicious, but after everything with his parents...

The Grand Cleric laid a hand on his arm, a questioning look in her eye, and Sebastian shook his head and tried to remember to smile.

"Just nervous," he assured her.

"You're marrying my cousin, Bethany," Charade cut in. "You've got nothing to be nervous about! Now, if you were marrying me or Anton..."

"There would be much cause for concern if you were marrying Anton," Cullen added drily. "Believe me. I did just that, and you were there."

"What are you talking about?" Anton clapped a hand to his chest and put on his best scandalised face. "We had a smashing wedding!"

"He did almost stab you, when you swung down from the roof," Merrill pointed out. "It was almost a very bloody wedding, but I think it turned out all right! You certainly looked dashing. Right off the cover of one of those Orlesian novels about the pirate and the princess."

"I am not a princess," Cullen declared, buttering a roll and dipping it in his coffee.

"Don't be modest, darling," Anton said, laying a hand on Cullen's arm. "You're a princess in my eyes!"

"And now we know the real reason Cullen almost stabbed Anton," Carver muttered, soaking up the juices on his plate with his roll.

"I am not a princess," Cullen insisted, "and despite how you dress, you are not a pirate. Though I'm not sure I would mind an Orlesian novel about the viscount and the commander."

Carver made gagging noises, and Bethany swatted his arm. Cullen realised that the whole table had heard that, and his ears turned pink.

"So, to sum up," Gamlen drawled, "what they're saying is to be grateful you're marrying Bethany and not one of her lunatic brothers."

Artemis was too distracted to protest, hands clutching the tablecloth, but Carver looked offended enough for both of them. 

"I am grateful," Sebastian said, joking thinly, until he caught Bethany's eye across the table. He realised then that he meant that statement genuinely.

Bethany turned her attention to Jenet. "I trust we counted accurately? Or at least something like accurately? Tell me we haven't had so many last moment additions that people will be standing in the aisles."

"We're fine," Jenet assured her. "We overestimated the Orlesians, so we've come out ahead, but not so much that it will look empty. On the contrary, with the seats labelled, everyone will know exactly who stood you up in the middle of this year's event of the season. It's not every year there's a royal wedding."

"If there were, I think every ruler would have a small harem, after the Rivaini style," Maevaris joked. "Not that I would mind the opportunity in the least."

"Ah, but you, like me, are noble, not royal," Elissa reminded her. "We might be missing out, if it were just a case of royal weddings."

"You're missing out anyway," Nathaniel pointed out. "We've been engaged for ..." He paused and counted on his fingers. "Twenty years, is it? I'm starting to think we should actually get married, before anything else political gets in the way."

"Well, we are in Starkhaven, already, so you being sent here wouldn't be a problem. And neither of us is dead." Elissa smiled teasingly, rubbing her cheek on Nathaniel's shoulder.

"True. These are both points in our favour." Nathaniel tugged teasingly on a lock of her hair. "What do you say, Lady Amell? Double wedding?"

"I will gladly share my sausages with you, Warden Howe," Bethany replied cheerfully, "but not my wedding. You can plan your own."

"I suppose that's fair," Elissa sighed. She titled her head up to look at Nathaniel, head still on his shoulder. "Want to elope? We already have a Grand Cleric."

"The Grand Cleric is off duty for breakfast," said the Grand Cleric between dainty bites of sausage.

"We can wait," Elissa said with a sharp smile.

On the other side of Cormac, Artemis tried to mask another squeak with a cough.

"Do you have the hiccups?" Sebastian asked.

"Uh... yes," Artie answered, voice strained. "That must be it." He wasn't sure which hand was doing what under the table any more, but it felt amazing.

"This is what happens when you put too much Nevarran roast into a skinny little Marcher," Cormac teased, his fingers twice as wicked under the table. "They get all cute and jumpy. Look at this! Isn't he the sweetest thing?"

"Mmm, I dunno." Anton shook his head. "I think Bethany's got him beat."

"I think Sebastian might be the better judge of that," Fenris quipped, his own hand just as occupied as Cormac's.

"Oh, you know Sebastian can't judge something like that without a few glasses of cordial first," Bethany joked, winking down the table at her fiancé.

"Ah, yes, the incordial cordial," Jenet muttered. "Maker preserve me from diamondback for shots."

Cullen looked up the table toward Jenet and then down the table toward Sebastian. "Is this table just a collection of people who are no longer permitted to drink cordial in polite company?"

"Yes," Fenris answered, remembering his own indulgence in the drink. Which, as he recalled, had led to him rescuing Cullen from the same.

"I still don't remember the last time I had cordial," Artemis said, fighting not to squirm in his seat and into the hands torturing him so sweetly, "but I suppose that proves your point." The tablecloth bunched under his fingers.

Bethany smiled sweetly behind her cup. "I can't say I've had any trouble with it," she said.

Artie squeaked again, another sound he played off as a hiccup. Anton squinted at Artemis's face and then Fenris's smug smile. Not all the hands were accounted for on that side of the table, and it looked like somebody was helping himself to more sausage. Naughty.

The next squeak came from Cullen, who jumped so hard he rattled the table. He glared at Anton, who pretended not to notice.

"Do you have the hiccups too?" Sebastian asked, brows knit. "I didn't realise they were contagious."

Both of Elissa's hands had disappeared from view, by this point, and she looked distinctly contemplative, glancing up at Nathaniel with a hint of a smile, the idea still coalescing behind her eyes.

"No," Nathaniel said, with no prompting. "I know what you're thinking, and I will not. You do whatever makes you happy, but I will not be joining you for that."

"But, Nathaniel, it would make me so very happy..." Elissa's eyes grew larger and her voice more pleading.

The Margravine leaned forward to get a better look up the table, cackling with glee.

"Sit back before you dip your hair in your coffee, Thalia," Maevaris warned the older woman, and the Margravine tossed her hair back.

"I will make you very happy, later this evening, dearest. And you know it." The only break in Nathaniel's severe countenance was the sly lift of one eyebrow. "Make sure you save room for dessert."

"Dessert," Anders scoffed, accent almost unintelligibly thick. "You are a Warden! That's a full seven courses, not just a dessert."

"Well, I couldn't possibly compete with that," Cormac admitted, moving his thigh a bit closer to Elissa. "Perhaps he is not the dessert, after all. But, you know what they say. Life's short; have dessert first."

"Yes!" Artemis gasped, voice pitched a shade too high to be agreement. "That is marvellous advice." Leaning in, Artie added in Fenris's ear, "Find me a convenient coat closet, and you can have as many helpings of dessert as you like."

Fenris's lips curled in a smirk. "Impatient," he teased. "Aren't you enjoying your breakfast?"

"A little too much," Artie grumbled. Fenris's smirk only widened.

"Dessert, hm?" Elissa asked Cormac, leaning his way again. "Does that mean I get to cover you in chocolate and eat you up?"

"Please don't," Carver groaned, before catching himself. Antivan, not Cormac. Right. "That sounds like the sort of mess that would make my brother twitchy, and I don't need him taking it out on my socks."

"Tell me, Nathaniel," Cormac said, with a grin, "is she the sort to leave a mess? Is Ser Carver right to be concerned about the well-being of his socks, in view of Lord Hawke's dedication to cleanliness in all things? I mean, I suppose I could let Lord Hawke clean the mess himself... Would that preserve your socks, Ser Carver?" He fluttered his eyes at his baby brother.

Carver almost made it to his feet, that time, but an unexpected hand on his bottom had him sitting down again quite quickly. He shot a mortified look at Magister Tilani, who leaned back to address Merrill, behind him.

"You're right, Baroness. Very muscular!" Maevaris winked at Merrill, who looked relieved by Carver's sudden decision to stay seated.

"And really, chocolate? I think something lighter would have a much more dramatic effect," Cormac drawled, pouring himself another cup of coffee.

"Oh!" Merrill chimed in. "A nice buttercream!"

"The lady has good taste," Anders said. "Everything goes with a nice buttercream." For a moment, he wished Varric had joined them. He would have found this dreadfully funny.

Bethany hummed. "So if I see my cook whipping up buttercream in the middle of the night, I'll know who to blame." She winked at Merrill.

"Don't encourage her," Carver grumbled. He pointed at Maevaris. "Or her, while we're at it."

"Mm, you are right," Elissa conceded, thinking it over as she eyed Cormac. "Buttercream with Antivan, and save the chocolate for the Orlesians."

"Please don't go touching the Orlesians," Nathaniel sighed. "You might catch something."

"The Orlesians?" Thalia scoffed, shaking her head. "The Orlesians have nothing on the privateers on the Waking Sea. Maker, that plague they brought down on Hercinia, at the dawn of the age! Everyone thought it was some ancient curse, but it all came down to rutting with filthy sailors."

"Wasn't your father--?" Cormac started, with a teasing glance at Artemis.

"A mercenary, not a privateer," Anton corrected, from the other end of the table, giving his oldest brother a suspicious squint.

"Are you sure? No pirate-hunting for him?" Cormac shrugged. "I'd heard he was the adventuring sort, but what do I know?"

"Nothing!" Carver snapped. "You know nothing! First _my_ brother, now my father!" And there it was.

"That is _our_ brother, Carver," Anton pointed out, "and I'm very sure he's capable of taking care of his own interests."

"Oh, Carver," Bethany sighed, reaching out to squeeze her brother's arm. "Please. I'm getting married, today. Don't punch any of the guests."

"And don't make me punch _you_ , Carver," Artie warned. At Bethany's look, he added, "Tomorrow. I will be punching no one on my sister's wedding day, either."

"Good boy, Artie," said Bethany. "You've earned another sausage." She nudged the platter back in Artemis's direction with a teasing smile.

"I think Artie has enough sausage," Anton said, intercepting the platter and spearing the last sausage for himself. He nibbled the end of the sausage with a suggestive look at Cullen.

"Can one ever have too much sausage?" Elissa asked, leaning back in her chair to peer around Nathaniel. "What do you think, Jenet?"

"What?" Jenet looked up from his plate. He had hoped that, with the last sausage taken, the sausage puns would cease. He looked at Bethany helplessly. "I'm afraid I have no strong feelings about sausages one way or the other."

"An ambivalence to sausage? Well, I never!" Thalia exclaimed, turning to offer Gamlen a dazzling smile. "What is it, do you think, with the younger generation? This sudden lack of desire for good meat!"

"Lady Aurum, I don't know what it's like in Ansburg, but an ambivalence to sausage and other innuendo makes the Ambassador a man of excellent taste, in my book," Gamlen huffed, taking another bite of egg, as he composed his thoughts. "Why, until my sister ran off to Ferelden, the Amells--"

"Threw the wildest parties in the history of Kirkwall, Uncle," Anton retorted, from across the table. He found the beans again, stirred them just so, and passed them back to Charade. "You'll never convince me the man who hired the full collection of Gallows Enchanters to entertain at his events was above an appreciation for fine sausage, even if it was only in the abstract."

"That's my father you're talking about!" Gamlen slammed his hand on the table hard enough to rattle plates. "What if it was your father? Would you say he had an appreciation of sausage?"

Anton blinked across the table at Gamlen. "You... did actually meet dad, didn't you?" He glanced up the table at his older brother. "Artie, Uncle Gamlen wants to know if we think dad appreciated a good sausage. Do you want to tell him, or should I?"

"As Anton will assure you, Uncle," Artemis said, leaning forward to address a sour-faced Gamlen, "our father was appreciative of all kinds of food. Sausages, turnips..."

Anton made a strangled sound in the back of his throat, eyes going wide and haunted. "Artie, I was trying to _forget_ the turnip incident."

"Trying, and yet all these years later, you still haven't succeeded." Artie smiled pleasantly at Gamlen. "So, no, I would not say that dad was as ambivalent to sausages as our friend the ambassador here."

Gamlen's face twisted. "Well, I suppose you had to come from somewhere," he grumbled.

Artemis raised his cup in salute as though he had just been paid a great compliment.

"Anyway, speaking of your parents," Gamlen said, ignoring Artie to address Bethany this time, "I'm sorry you're stuck with me representing your mother's side of the family. I know Leandra would have been proud." He nodded curtly to himself and then to Sebastian.

"Why, Uncle Gamlen, that was almost sweet," Anton said.

"Did he say anything like that at your wedding?" Artie asked Anton. "He didn't say anything like that at our wedding."

"She never believed this would actually happen." Bethany shook her head, sadly. "Of course, I don't think she expected that Anton would be the Viscount of Kirkwall, either. Carver, maybe, but not Anton."

"What can I say? I took a long route into politics." Anton laughed and offered a bit of a roll to Cullen. "I had to stop and enjoy the templar sausage, along the way -- which was an excellent choice. I absolutely recommend it."

Cullen pushed Anton's hand away, a blush creeping across his cheeks. "Don't talk so generally about templar sausage. I still have to work with your brother."

"The templar sausage is excellent!" Merrill called, from the other end of the table, and Carver sank down in his seat, wondering if he could escape by crawling out under the table. On the other hand, he didn't much want to know what was going on under the table, given the uncomfortable look on Nathaniel's face and the way his brothers were squirming in their seats.

"I agree with Cullen. Can we not talk about templar sausage? Or swording. Or turnip-carving traditions of Lake Calenhad." Carver covered his face with one hand.

"Turnip-carving?" Maevaris asked, blinking at Carver, who only sank deeper in his chair. "Is this some naughty southern tradition I am unfamiliar with? How fascinating."

"I did not imagine turnips could have such uses," Anders said, feigning surprise. "Perhaps I might have appreciated them more if I had known."

"I agree," said Maevaris gravely. "This is why travel and an exchange of culture is terribly important."

Artemis bit his tongue at the mention of 'culture' and tried not to make eye-contact with Cormac. Carver might try to punch them both if they switched from sausage puns to culture puns.

"Are there any more rolls?" Gamlen interrupted.

"Buns," Thalia corrected as she passed them down.


	72. Chapter 72

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian finally takes the time to present his misgivings about the wedding to Bethany. While they are dressing for it.

Sebastian paced nervously back and forth, as his valet struggled to get him into his wedding attire. Snatching his belt from the bed, he threw open the door and made his way down the hall, crown askew, and boots still unbuttoned, to Bethany's suite. The valet scurried after, crouching to button the boots, as Sebastian knocked at the door.

"Are you dressed enough for company?" Sebastian called out, hoping she wouldn't leave him standing in the hall.

"For the love of Andraste, Sebastian, it hardly matters at this point, does it?" Bethany called back, and a servant opened the door to let Sebastian and his valet into the room, where Bethany stood in a massive gown, half buttoned, the rigging still being adjusted under the skirts.

"Actually, about that..." Sebastian rubbed the back of his neck, and tried to take a nervous step, but the valet clung to his ankle, still plying the boot with a buttonhook.

Bethany waited for him to continue, one eyebrow raised, but Sebastian continued to struggle with his words and with his valet. Clearing her throat, Bethany addressed the servant adjusting her skirts and the valet buttoning Sebastian's boots. "Could you excuse us for just a moment? My gown isn't in danger of falling off if you let go, is it?"

"No, my lady," the servant answered, looking somewhere between confused and panicked. The valet was no less perplexed, looking back and forth between bride and groom with the button he was working on half-done. With an encouraging shoo of Bethany's hand, the servants filed into the hallway, and Sebastian entered the suite, closing the door behind him.

"You look, uh... beautiful," Sebastian said, because that was the sort of thing one said to a bride on her wedding day and because Bethany was always beautiful.

"Getting there, at least," Bethany drawled. "And you look, um. Blue. Should I be concerned? You're breathing awfully fast, pumpkin." As she spoke, she herded him towards a chair in case he needed one.

"We're getting married," Sebastian panted, dropping into the chair, and then leaping back up to pace again. "You and I are going to be married. And that means there are certain... expectations. And I want this. And I know that if this is the life I must have, I want to spend it with you, but I don't think I can live up to the expectations."

"Pumpkin, nobody else's expectations matter. They're not getting married. We are." Bethany patted Sebastian's face, soothingly. "It's not up to them. What are you so worried about?"

"I hope you're not wearing anything, ah, expensive under that dress... Orlesian?" Sebastian muttered, adding his own hands to Bethany's.

"I'm not in the habit of buying Orlesian goods, when I can get a local dressmaker to do it better and for half the price. Why should I put money in the pockets of a bloodthirsty empire, if I don't have to?" Bethany chuckled, squinting at Sebastian in confusion. "Is that what you're worried about? The political ramifications of my underthings?"

"That... No, I..." Sebastian wiped a hand over his face. "I hate the thought of you going through that much trouble for... well."

"Pumpkin, you're forgetting to breathe again," Bethany gently reminded him. She watched him take an exaggerated breath and nodded in encouragement. "Sebastian, my love. Are you having cold feet? Is that what this is about?" She could think of no other reason why her groom would race over here looking so panicked.

"Not about marrying you," Sebastian was quick to answer, his hands squeezing hers. "I love you, and I want you at my side. I... It's... there are certain husbandly duties I will be expected to _perform_."

Bethany chuckled, her face softening. "Is that what you're nervous about? I promise, it is nothing to be scared of, and you will do fine."

"I just don't want you to expect too much, tonight. I know what the books say this should be like. I know this is something you've done before -- not the getting married, but the rest." Sebastian looked like he was having terrible difficulties putting one word after the next. "Tonight, I want... when we are married... I would like to get a good night's sleep. With my wife."

"You've never shared a bed with anyone, have you?" The idea slowly made its way through Bethany's mind. "I grew up with four brothers, and never enough room. I didn't even think of it, when you said you had brothers, I just assumed... Well, I'm sure Artie and Carver can tell you that I don't kick and I don't wake up shouting. You've got nothing to worry about. I've never elbowed any of my brothers in the eye, which is more than I can say for most of them."

Sebastian suddenly looked even more concerned, and Bethany found it easy to lead him back to the chair. "Is that common? Kicking and elbowing?" He swallowed. "I don't think I can offer you any assurances, there. I'm usually asleep when I'm asleep."

"Well, I'd hope so!" Bethany laughed.

"But, I know you need more than I can give you. And I know that being married is supposed to mean that you stop looking elsewhere." Sebastian held up a hand as Bethany opened her mouth. "But, I'm not going to ask that. I've never asked you that. I'm just going to ask that you choose carefully. Like Nathaniel, maybe. I've heard more than I ever needed to, and I'm sure you've heard even more. And if that doesn't work out, it's not going to start a war."

Bethany considered her husband-to-be, head tipped to one side. Getting his permission was... sweet, in a way, but the timing was odd. "I will consider your suggestion," she said, tone softly teasing. "But... is this your way of saying that we will not be consummating our marriage in the traditional fashion?"

"No. I... That is... Not all at once. If we could." Sebastian wrung his hands. He was certain he must be sweating through this ridiculous get-up.

Bethany took his fidgeting hands in hers. "It's you and I, Sebastian. We will do things our way, as we always have. I can be content with slow, if that is what you want." She smiled reassuringly, and the set of Sebastian's shoulders eased. "For now, let just focus on surviving the day, shall we? Nothing is ever dull or easy when my family is around, after all."

Sebastian squeezed her hands and brought them to his lips.

"Now, let's finish getting dressed. Your boots are still unbuttoned, pumpkin." Bethany gently pinched Sebastian's cheek.


	73. Chapter 73

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the wedding, people mingle much more freely. An unexpected guest appears in place of an expected one.

The ceremony dragged on interminably, Sebastian thought, but it was less the wording or the length he had a problem with than that he was sweating terribly in his father's old ceremonial armour, which had been adjusted to fit him. He thought he should have his own made, but Nathaniel advised against it. Either way, the soft leather he wore underneath was much too much for a Starkhaven summer. But, Bethany looked stunning, across from him, like the heat had no effect on her at all.

Still, somehow he made it through -- all the words in the right order, the promises from the bottom of his heart to go with the ones in the treaty he'd signed months earlier. And somehow, suddenly, they were wed. He'd married the woman of his dreams in front of an applauding audience of nobles from across Thedas. After a shower of flowers, they were swept out through a back passage, to reappear in the ballroom, on the raised balcony in the back of the room.

"Smile, nod, wave occasionally," Jenet told them. "You'll be up here until everyone has been introduced."

"Could you get me some water?" Sebastian asked, clutching the balcony rail. "It's all been a bit much."

"Done," Jenet said, stepping back. "Anything for you, Lady Amell?"

"Some of that sweet Tevinter wine that Magister Tilani brought us." Bethany smiled. "Thank you, Jenet. You take such good care of my husband."

"Well, it wouldn't do to have the prince of Starkhaven keel over the balcony on his wedding day, now would it?" Jenet replied, ducking his head graciously. "I shall return bearing water and wine."

Sebastian pulled out his kerchief to mop at the perspiration at his brow. "It also wouldn't do for the prince of Starkhaven to melt in the heat, and yet that's already happening."

Bethany chuckled and crept closer to him, one hand tucked into his arm, the other reaching up to cup the back of his neck. Sebastian jumped at her cold fingers.

"Magic," she said in reply the question she knew he would ask. "It has its benefits."

Sebastian agreed, laughing in relief and leaning into the cool touch. "Is that also the answer for why you look so radiant today? Magic?"

"Magic, and a good hairdresser." In the background, Bethany was aware of families being introduced, and she smiled and waved welcomingly without actually listening.

Eventually, familiar names began to be called. Lord Artemis Hawke of Kirkwall and his husband Fenris. Baroness Merrill of Kirkwall and Knight-Lieutenant Carver Hawke. Bethany fluttered her fan at her family. Lady Elissa Cousland, Teyrn-Proxy of Highever and her consort, Warden Nathaniel Howe. And Bethany had to admit Nathaniel did look good in his Warden armour. Viscount Anton Hawke and Knight-Commander Cullen Rutherford of Kirkwall. Bethany blew kisses.

And then a name that caused half the room to turn around and most of the chatter to stop: Teyrn Delilah Howe of Gwaren.

"What the fuck, Delilah!?" Nathaniel's voice was not that loud, but it echoed off the walls as the room fell silent in surprise.

"Oh, Nathaniel," she shot back, "you're a Warden. Who knows where to send your mail?" Which was utterly untrue, and she knew it, but the ripple of laughter through the room was all she wanted.

The list of names went on: Mack Kestrel of the House Kestrel of Antiva escorting Margravine Thalia Aurum of Ansburg, Magister Maevaris Tilani of Qarinus escorted by Warden Jan Kasselmann of Hossberg, Gamlen Amell of the House Amell of Kirkwall and his daughter Charade.

By then Jenet had returned with water for Sebastian and a glass of wine for Bethany, with the promise to keep both glasses full of whatever they wished throughout the night. The balcony afforded them an excellent view of Nathaniel stomping his way over to his sister, and Bethany watched around a smile and a sip of wine.

"Looks like your family isn't the one with the drama this time," Sebastian teased.

"You still have Fenris in the same room as a magister, even if it is Maevaris. Give it time."

Nathaniel approached his sister, hands up in a question. Delilah sighed and rolled her eyes towards the ceiling.

"It's good to see you too, Nathaniel," she said. "Good to know your manners are still intact."

"My manners are exactly where they should be," Nathaniel huffed. "How the Blight did you end up Teyrn of Gwaren?" He turned to Elissa, who had finally glided to his side. "And why didn't you say anything?"

"She's _your_ sister!" Elissa reminded him. "I assumed you knew!"

"Well, I've only been the actual Teyrn for a few days, but I've been the Teyrn-Regent for almost three years. You know the trouble Solona was having with Zevran and the Crows. He went off to put a stop to things, and she decided she needed someone with a good political background who didn't need the hand-holding." Delilah smiled and slipped an arm around her brother's waist. "And really, who else would she have picked?"

"Alistair?" Nathaniel retorted, reflexively.

"Oh, Alistair wouldn't know politics if he farted state addresses every time he ate cheese. Besides, he's a Warden. He can't. What would people think? It would be a nightmare. At the very least, it'd be the Anderfels all over again, and then Orlais would invade..." Delilah rolled her eyes and shrugged. "And I haven't gotten a wedding invitation for the two of you, yet. Are you ever going to get around to it?"

Nathaniel groaned and Elissa threw her hands up.

"You know what happens every time we set a date," Elissa sighed, taking Nathaniel's hand. "Of course, now we're both in Starkhaven, and I like this Grand Cleric, so maybe something will actually happen. You're already here for a wedding. Fergus can kiss my ass. Let's see if we can find the Grand Cleric and get her to marry us in one of those lovely alcoves." She laughed until her sides shook.

Delilah narrowed her eyes at Elissa. "I'm not entirely sure if you're joking or pretending to be joking. Either way, whatever. Get hitched, already. None of us is getting any younger."

"Let's get a few drinks in us before we start on the wedding planning, shall we?" Nathaniel sighed, rubbing his forehead.

Delilah tipped her head in the direction of the drink table. "I'm eyeing the cordial myself. Between the kid, the husband, and the job, I don't get to drink nearly often enough, when I really should."

Artemis and Fenris were already standing by the drink table, and for once Artie wasn't rearranging the bottles. "Bethy did this on purpose," he said with a baleful look at one bottle in particular. "I know she did."

"Of course she did," Fenris replied, pouring some wine for himself. "It's her wedding day, and she likes cordial and tormenting her brothers. Perhaps someone should warn Jenet, however, if what he said this morning is true."

"Ah, and here is the delightful Lord Hawke, already getting me a glass of cordial," Cormac chuckled and kissed Artemis on the cheek, as he swept in behind, trailing Maevaris. "Sadly, he is not so much for the ladies, and half of Thedas weeps."

"I don't know about weeping, but I'm very certain a lot of them are distracted by all the leather." Elissa's eyes lingered on Fenris. "Would you wear something like that, Nathaniel?"

"Unlike elves, I have body hair," Nathaniel replied, pouring his sister a glass of cordial, first.

"That's not a no." Elissa's eyebrows lifted.

"I've been meaning to ask," Maevaris said to Fenris, pouring herself a glass of wine. "You're still called Fenris? That didn't change when I sent you his records? I'm almost surprised. But, I know how hard it is to choose a new life at all."

"One name suits me as well as any other," Fenris said with a shrug. The twitch of one ear was all that gave away his discomfort at this line of questioning. "And... I find I do mind so much mind the name Fenris, if the right person is saying it." He turned a fond smile in his husband's direction.

"In fairness, I call you quite a few other things just as often," Artie replied, leaning into Fenris's space so they bumped shoulders. The wine looked tempting, but he would abstain for the moment, if only to remind himself that he could.

"And most of those I do not mind either," Fenris said, his grin turning lecherous.

"Good. I'm sure I can think of a few new things to call you later." Artemis kissed Fenris's cheek and took the open bottle of cordial when it was free so he could actually pour Cormac that drink.

"Well, I certainly hope you can think of a few things to call me, too," Cormac teased, plucking the glass of cordial from Artemis's fingers. "After all, he's the one who gets to go home with you. Me? Ah! I must return to my work. It never ends!"

"A situation for which I am eternally grateful," Fenris joked, pressing a kiss to Artemis's shoulder.

Delilah looked at her brother in confusion and cocked her head at Artemis and his small harem.

Nathaniel failed to suppress a smile as he half-shrugged and tipped his head toward Elissa.

"Have you seen Viscount Hawke?" Elissa asked, unaware of the silent conversation beside her. "I am absolutely certain he's got some things to say about Kirkwall, and I just haven't been in the same room with him, without a seating arrangement, yet."

"I would check the chandeliers," Fenris said cryptically, watching them all look up at the same time. "That is where he was the last time no one could find him. Except... ah, there he is." He pointed past Maevaris's shoulder, towards the newlyweds' balcony. As he was already on the floor, Anton couldn't swing down from that balcony, but his gestures and Bethany's horrified laughter suggested he was trying to get her to.

"The viscount is involved in diplomatic negotiations, I see," Elissa said. "Important ones. I would love to see Sebastian swooping down from the balcony."

"The man would hurt himself," Nathaniel sighed. "I would not encourage it."

"I would," Delilah protested, sipping her cordial and angling herself as though waiting for a show. 

"All the more reason for him not to," Nathaniel muttered. He was both relieved and disappointed to see how emphatically Sebastian was shaking his head. Anton should have tried plying him with cordial first.

"Oh, please, he'd hurt himself in that armour," Maevaris sighed, eyes drifting to Sebastian. "All that enamel... if he slipped even a bit!"

"It is, perhaps, a good thing he has married a mage, then, no?" Cormac asked, rhetorically, knowing his sister had no spells that would help. He glanced around near Anton, looking for Anders, before spotting him deep in conversation with Cullen, the Margravine of Ansburg, and the minuscule Orlesian complement.


	74. Chapter 74

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders rescues Cullen from the Orlesians. Cullen rescues Anders from Sebastian. Anton rescues Cullen from Anders. Cullen rescues Anton from Elissa. A great lot of awkwardness.

Across the room, Cullen stepped closer to Anders, who placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "I think the commander just told you he wouldn't be talking about that," Anders said, smiling less than entirely jovially at the courtier to their left.

"He just doesn't know how to have a good time," the courtier retorted, moving to lay a hand on Cullen's arm.

Anton was otherwise occupied, as far as Anders could see, so he slipped his own arm into the path of the hand. "Commander Cullen is uninterested in your good time, but maybe I could show you a better one?" The flowers in his beard shifted as he grinned down at the Orlesian courtier, the light catching the griffons on the shoulders of his armour.

"So how is it you get to put your northern barbarian hands on the commander?" another courtier asked, swiping a canapé off a passing waiter's tray. "I wonder if Viscount Kirkwall knows what's going on right under his nose...?"

A flash of red shot across the tops of Cullen's cheeks, and he turned an angry eye on the second courtier. "Warden Kasselmann is a very good friend of our family, whereas I don't like you. That's the difference."

The courtier scoffed, exchanging a look with his compatriot. "'I do not like you', he says. I take back my suspicion. Surely the commander has no room for the warden with such a large stick already firmly in place."

Cullen put a hand on Anders's arm before he could move. They'd both suffered worse, and he doubted Bethany would be pleased if someone dropped a fireball in the middle of her reception. Then again, the last Hawke wedding had set the precedent for setting unpleasant people on fire.

"I am not the one acting like a barbarian," Anders said, all but willing the man to choke on his canapé. "And really, it's not like I'm from Ansburg," he added with a teasing wink at Thalia.

Thalia guffawed, elbowing aside one of the obnoxious courtiers. "No, indeed, you don't know truly barbaric until you've been to Ansburg. We've skinned men alive for lesser offences, you know." She narrowed her eyes at the courtier nearest her, who rocked back onto his heels.

But, the Orlesians continued to circle like wyverns around a wounded nug. One of the Comtesse's ladies slipped in between Thalia and Cullen. "So very much plate on this extraordinary templar! Tell me, is this so you'll be the better for unwrapping?"

"I..." Cullen stumbled into Anders. "That is..."

"You are a very beautiful woman, but I do not think the Knight-Commander is interested in beautiful women. Only in his very handsome husband." Anders put an arm around Cullen and leaned over his shoulder. "I, on the other hand, I am always interested in beautiful women. Like Margravine Ansburg, here! Do you think you can compete with such excellence? Do you wish to try?" Anders wiggled his eyebrows.

"And you're a bit of a hoary slut then, aren't you?" one of the courtiers scoffed.

"I practised many years to be so skilled and wise." Anders grinned wickedly. "And of course, I am a Warden. You would do well not to let a few grey hairs lead you to think me too old for this."

As insane as he thought the man for coming here, Cullen was glad Bethany had invited Anders. He was half-hiding behind the man when the bride and groom were finally announced to the room as Prince and Princess of Starkhaven. The obligatory cheering and applause provided Cullen enough of a distraction to steer himself and Anders away from the clutch of Orlesians.

Radiant and regal, Bethany looked every bit the princess as she came down the stairs, her hand on her husband's arm. Next to her, Sebastian was pale and sweaty but smiling. 

"How are you doing?" Anders asked Cullen in an aside, still watching and applauding for the couple. "Are you always this popular with Orlesians?"

"It's the armour," Cullen said with a strained smile. "Apparently, it makes me look dashing. Or so Anton said, before telling me that I looked even more dashing out of the armour." He finally caught sight of his husband, hugging Bethany and shaking Sebastian's hand.

And then Sebastian's eyes were on him -- on them, really -- and Anders spun Cullen to face him. "Forgive me this," Anders muttered, dipping Cullen back and letting his lips fall to Cullen's ear, first. "Sebastian's staring. It'll be over soon."

In a rush of confusion, Cullen threw his arms around Anders before he realised he wasn't falling. Forgive--? What would be over? And then Anders's lips met his, warm and gentle, more of an invitation than a demand, and Cullen remembered that game of spin the bottle. He knew what Anders was capable of, and if Sebastian was really staring -- If Anton was looking -- If the Orlesians were watching... But, the kiss seemed distracted and distant. Not at all like the last time. It was all a show, and if the purpose was to get Sebastian to stop looking, which it had to be, because there was no other reason Anders would do... _this_... then Sebastian would get a show.

Anders was surprised when Cullen's lips parted, at the way they parted more at the flick of his tongue. He dove into the kiss as if he meant it, shoving aside the memories hammering their way down his spine at that sharp taste of used lyrium in Cullen's spit. He kissed like his life depended on it, which, he supposed, it did.

From across the room, Fenris watched the proceedings, head tilted. "Has Warden Kasselmann been drinking?" he asked conversationally between sips of wine.

"Mm?" Artemis looked up from the platter of hors d'oeuvres, following Fenris's line of sight. "Oh, what the Blight? It's the cordial, isn't it?" He looked around, wondering where Cormac had disappeared off to.

By the time Anders and Cullen broke apart, Bethany had steered Sebastian to another corner of the room and the two were enmeshed in conversation with some Starkhaven nobility. Anders was careful not to let go of Cullen until they were both standing properly upright. The man looked a bit unsteady on his legs after that.

"I... um," said Cullen dazedly, straightening armour that didn't need straightening. "Thank you? Wait. No. Why am I thanking you? What...?"

"You're welcome," Anders said anyway, fixing the flowers in his beard. Looking around, the Orlesians were whispering, but at least Sebastian was focused somewhere else. Anton, on the other hand, cheerily waved to him from over Elissa's shoulder.

Cullen shifted uncomfortably, plate clattering dully as he tried to ease the dull throbbing under his codpiece without touching anything near it. It looked like Anton was having some... political thing, and with one of the ladies who had a distinct taste for shapely Fereldans. Cullen, quite sensibly, elected to stay with Anders, for the moment. Anton could likely handle things better without him distracting the lady in question, and he'd do better without being a distraction to anyone else in the room.

"Isn't that your husband?" Elissa asked, looking over her shoulder to where Cullen stood beside the tall warden, looking dreadfully shaken. "Seems he's found himself a little more than he can handle."

"Oh, I know Warden Kasselmann. I'm not concerned." Anton returned his cheery smile to his present company. "But, you were saying?"

"Oh, I was saying that such a handsome man with such a handsome husband must want for little from other _men_." Elissa sipped her wine thoughtfully. "But, I have heard your taste is not only for men."

"I am not so picky as that, no," Anton said, swirling his wine glass. "But I do have _good_ taste, and I know when I've found something delectable." He cut another glance in Cullen's direction. He'd have to ask him later what exactly Anders had done to put that look on his face. Anton would like to try it, whatever it was.

"I'm sure you do," Elissa said, one hand resting on Anton's arm, toying with the fabric of his sleeve. "And your husband certainly does seem _delectable_ , but perhaps there are other flavours out there you might want to try?"

Anton watched her over his wine glass, trying to read the intent behind the question. He knew better than to take such flirtations at face value, not at court.

"Oh, I've tried a variety of flavours over the course of our marriage," Anton said, and he watched Elissa's eyebrows arch in interest. "So far, I think Cullen tastes best with orange."

"And you?" Elissa asked, studying the hand wrapped around Anton's glass. "Let me guess -- a sweet pomegranate. You look like that would be an excellent choice."

"Well, you'd have to ask Cullen about that, I think," Anton replied with a smile, waving his husband over. "But, the last time I asked, he seemed fairly pleased with hibiscus, like that tea from northern Antiva."

"And I thought it was your brother who liked Antivan flavours." Elissa studied Anton, watched how easily he deflected her interest. He might be new to the ruling class, but he'd caught on very quickly to how the game was played. If this was actual disinterest, she'd have to move on, but if he was simply trying to avoid a scandal, there might still be an opening.

"My brother has surprisingly broad tastes," Anton decided, after a moment's hesitation.

"I was half expecting to find you swinging from a balcony by now," Cullen said as he approached. He draped an arm around Anton's waist. "Should I be relieved or concerned?"

"You should be patient," Anton replied. "The balcony was taken until only recently. And really, I think swinging down from the chandelier would be much more dramatic. It looks sturdy enough."

"Please don't," Cullen said pleasantly, smiling at Elissa. "Lady Cousland, wasn't it?"

"It's good to see you again, Knight-Commander," Elissa replied cheerfully. "Your husband was just telling me how much he enjoys oranges."

Cullen's blush returned full force. His cheeks had only just cooled down from Anders's... attentions. "Was he now?" he said, only stammering a little.

"I like oranges," Anton agreed.

"I am also fond of oranges. Yes. Oranges are excellent. Particularly the Nevarran kind." Cullen nodded, looking like his head might fall off.

"He's got a fondness for Nevarra that makes me wonder how he didn't end up with my sister." Anton smiled wryly, and Cullen blushed harder.

"To be fair, I almost ended up with your sister for other reasons."

"Yes, but she was in Starkhaven, at the time."

"Ah, Starkhaven, bane of so much potential," Elissa sighed, casting a glance toward where Nathaniel looked alternately flattered at the attentions of the Comtesse de Bayard and like he might murder his sister. "But, Viscount Kirkwall was telling me I should ask you about your favourite flavour."

Cullen blinked and cocked his head. "Flavour of what? What I like in my whiskey isn't what I want in my curry."

"Dessert toppings," Elissa answered blithely. She frowned at her wine glass, finding it mostly empty, and she wondered which of these gentlemen she could get to refill it for her. "The viscount seems to think that hibiscus is among your favourites? An intriguing choice!"

Cullen's brows knit. What dessert did he have with--? Oh. 

This time Cullen wasn't able to smooth out his stuttering as he spoke. "I-It's certainly one of my, uh... preferred flavours. I'm rather fond of it." It occurred to Cullen that he didn't have a drink in his hand, which was a terrible oversight on his part. It would, at least, give him something to hide his face behind.

"What about you, then, my lady?" Anton asked with an ease Cullen envied. "Do you have a preferred flavour?"

"I'm afraid I have far more Fereldan tastes. Nothing so exotic as the two of you, but a bit of rose goes a long way to improving the flavour of so many bitter things." The corner of Elissa's mouth turned up, and a distant fondness touched the corners of her eyes.

"I've never found the time to put anything bitter in my mouth. Always seemed like a waste, when I could find savoury, sweet, or salty. I was quite enthused by salt, in my youth." A breathy chuckle escaped Anton.

" _Salt_. Yes. That's one word for it." Cullen huffed in amusement.

"So, the rumours about the pirate queen are true, then?" Elissa's eyes sparkled.

"That depends on which rumours," Anton replied, smoothly. "The last I heard, the only pirate queen I knew had run off to Antiva with a dwarf. Probably also just rumour -- she was so fond of those."

"Ah, then maybe we should ask our new Antivan friend if he has encountered such a pair in his travels," Elissa said, "though perhaps that is too hopeful of me. As I suppose it is too hopeful of me to wonder if you might tell me which rumours are true? About you and your pirate queen?"

"Now where would be the fun in that?" Anton laughed. "I'd much rather hear you guess and see how closely you can hit the mark."

"I would rather not scandalise the Orlesians with my wicked imagination," Elissa replied with a sharp grin. "Do you play cards, Viscount? I have a feeling you would be good at it."

"Are there rumours about that too?" Anton asked. "My, my. I hope they're spicy ones. I guarantee you they are not true if they aren't."

Cullen thought of all the times he'd played cards with Anton, and was very glad he was quite as dressed as he was, as he could feel the flush spread across his chest. "His card playing is always piquant," he managed, somehow.

"You're just grumpy I won your trousers before you could get me out of mine," Anton replied with a smile.

"Strip Wicked Grace?" Elissa asked, raising an eyebrow. That sounded like an in.

"Diamondback," Anton corrected. "Two-player. I'm not winning all my husband's clothes with an audience. As much as I might enjoy showing off the very best thing I ever found in Kirkwall, he's much less fond of streaking, and what kind of husband would I be to strip him bare in front of company?"

"Then I suppose a repeat game is out." Elissa took the last sip from her glass, and looked thoughtfully through it. "What a shame!"

"I beg your pardon!" Cullen squared his shoulders, determined to put a stop to this before Anton did anything that would wind up with either of them pantsless in front of the sister of the Teyrn of Highever. "That is my husband you're flirting with."

Elissa smiled brightly. "Yes, it most certainly is! And that handsome Warden over there is my fiancé. You should give him a try! He's delightful."

Cullen stared at her as though she were speaking a foreign language. "Try...? We're at a wedding, and you're talking about, what, trading lovers?"

"He's cute when he's scandalised," Elissa told Anton.

Anton laughed and squeezed Cullen's waist, ignoring the way the armour dug into his arm. "Isn't he just? But it looks like my husband has no intention of trading me in, even temporarily. I'm afraid you'll have to tempt some other man's husband."

"More's the pity," Elissa said with only a hint of disappointment. She supposed she'd have to find someone else to fill her drink, and--ah. There went the ambassador, wearing a deliciously short tunic. "Jenet, my dear," she called after him, and the man froze as though unsure if he should answer or not. "I have a request for you..."


	75. Chapter 75

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anton and Cullen can't quite find a closet to deface, but there's certainly a quiet looking alcove, over there...

"And just maybe," Anton purred, nuzzling Cullen's cheek, "I'll have to tempt and scandalise my own husband. What do you think? Did you see any convenient closets on your way in?"

"Anton!" Cullen hissed, cheeks nearly glowing with the heat they generated. "This is your sister's wedding! It's hardly the time or the place!"

"I disagree profoundly. It's the first day you and I have both had to spend entirely in each other's company, in months. It's the perfect time. The place..." Anton looked around the room, noticing the curtained alcoves along one wall. "We've always been good at interesting places. Besides, the last time my sister was in Starkhaven, we had a lovely time."

"The difference is that this time we are also in Starkhaven, which is not your front hall, with its convenient assortment of doors to unspeakable places," Cullen retorted, letting his hands appreciate the curve of Anton's waist, the sharp bone of his hip.

"Those doors lead to perfectly speakable places -- the library, the cellar, the coat closet..." Anton grinned slyly. "Now, the things we got up to in the coat closet. Those might only be speakable in whispers. How quiet do you think you can be? Can we undertake a repeat of those barely whisperable things behind a curtain, perhaps?"

Cullen knew he was supposed to be the practical one. He was supposed to divert Anton with promises of 'later' and focus on the now, the celebration of a family wedding. But he had never really been any good at denying Anton, especially when unwhisperable things were involved.

"You know Carver will walk in on us whether there's a door or not," Cullen muttered even as he took Anton's hand and considered the curtained alcoves at their disposal. He pulled Anton towards one in the corner, not as well-lit as the others, but just as serviceable. "For the record, if anyone does find us, it was a terrible idea and you seduced me."

"It was all the talk of orange and hibiscus," Anton agreed with a chuckle, allowing himself to be pulled along. "Elissa was there to witness it."

"Afraid there's no time for orange syrup, now," Cullen muttered, regretfully, as he slowed near a small table of desserts, picking up some sort of pudding tart as he glanced around the room to make sure no one was watching them.

"No, but there's Nevarran mint cups. I wonder how you taste with mint cream..." Anton purred, smiling predatorily as he backed Cullen into an alcove and slit the rope holding the curtain open.

Cullen choked on the tart as he backed into a statue of Havard. That was something he hadn't considered -- there would be religious and historical statues in these alcoves. Not that there wasn't enough space, but that there would be other eyes, albeit stone ones, in there with them. He managed to swallow the tart and thought he might say something about it, but Anton had already set aside the mint cream pastry and unfastened some critical pieces of plate.

"I-- That is..." was as far as Cullen got, before his husband's lips were on him, and he completely forgot what he'd meant to say. Mint cream, he decided, was an acceptable highlight to Anton's tongue.

Anton made his own purr of approval around Cullen's tongue. Mint went well with everything, he found, and he was pleased to find this observation held true as his hands slid over armour in the quest for skin. He knew Cullen's body as well as his own, and he could strip the man of his plate blindfolded and upside-down if he had to. But, more importantly, he knew by now which pieces had to be removed for such... activities and which could be left to rattle when Cullen moved.

"'That is' what?" Anton teased between kisses, his lips never leaving Cullen's. "Are you enjoying your dessert?" And, ah, finally, his fingers touched skin. Anton swallowed Cullen's gasp.

"The tart _was_ delicious," Cullen teased back, wincing at the way his armour scraped against Havard when he moved, pulling Anton as close to him as he could without magic.

Anton chuckled, a quiet huff of breath against Cullen's cheek. "I suppose I've been called worse things."

"This tart is also delicious," Cullen huffed, amusedly, "but I was talking about the pastry."

"This tart would like a reminder of how delicious you are." Anton gave a quick squeeze that brought Cullen up on his toes. "Do you remember that afternoon we spent in Meredith's wardrobe?"

"Maker, I almost wish I didn't..." Cullen tugged at the back of Anton's hair. "You're going to do that again, aren't you. Here. In front of all these people."

"Yes, but just think: none of them can throw you in the dungeon for it." Anton chuckled just loudly enough that Cullen pulled him into another kiss, just to shut him up.

... What was that thing Anders had done? Cullen tried to kiss Anton like Anders had kissed him. If he had to have his tongue licked by a mage, at least he should be able to learn something from it. A pity he'd been too distracted to pay better attention, at the time, and he wasn't going to ask Anders to do that again. Ever.

"Mmm? Something new?" Anton purred, the tip of his tongue trapped by Cullen's teeth.

Cullen tried to respond, only to find that it was difficult to speak with someone else's tongue in his mouth. He released Anton's tongue to say, "Is this not how you eat a tart?"

Another soft chuckle ghosted past Cullen's cheek. "Well, the tart isn't complaining."

Behind Anton's back, Cullen wrestled off his gauntlets. There were fewer layers to get to Anton's skin, but he doubted Anton would appreciate Cullen groping his ass with cold metal gloves. They clanked against the floor, and he cringed but didn't stop. Cullen just hoped the room was loud enough to mask the sounds of his armour.

Not to mention the wicked sounds Anton was making, now that Cullen's fingers had found their way into Anton's tight pants. Cullen quieted him with another kiss, wondering if the wicked fool was hoping to get caught.

Anton could admit a certain fondness for the idea of scandalising the Orlesians -- getting caught with his trousers down, in the middle of a royal wedding, and perhaps most scandalously, _with his husband_. But, at the same time, he'd prefer not giving any of those scandalmongers a better look at that husband. That delightful husband who was trying to make the best of not having any oil.

Cullen felt Anton's weight shift suddenly, and then a tiny bottle of oil appeared in Anton's hand, between them.

"And I have another, on the other boot, for later. I came out well-stocked, for this one." Anton nipped teasingly at Cullen's earlobe.

"You planned this, didn't you?" Cullen breathed, just as scandalised as any Orlesian might have been.

"Well, I've had you in every room worth mentioning in the Viscount's Keep in Kirkwall. Why shouldn't we make a point of leaving a few stains on Starkhaven's royal palace?" Anton chuckled, quietly and nibbled at Cullen's neck, the best he could with armour in the way.

"You shameless brigand," Cullen said in mock surprise. "You just had to have me here in earshot of the Orlesians... and in eyeshot of Havard, it seems." Behind Anton's back, he opened the vial by touch. He was sure he spilled a bit of the oil and only prayed that neither of them slipped on it later.

"Havard has seen more scandalous things, I'm sure," Anton countered with a glance up at the statue. "Hm. Or perhaps not. I might be losing my touch if he has."

"I'm sure you'll find new and interesting ways to scandalise all the statuary," Cullen said, his lips moving to Anton's chin and mapping the line of his jaw as his hands returned to Anton's skin, slippery now with oil. With his lips against Anton's throat, Cullen could feel as well as hear the sound of approval he made.

From somewhere on the other side of the curtain, a strangled sound of pain rose above the dull roar of conversation in the room.

"If that's Carver, he can fend for himself," Anton muttered, arching between Cullen's fingers and lips.

"Better not be Carver. I warned him about that." Cullen nibbled at the ridge of Anton's collarbone, in the loose neck of his shirt.


	76. Chapter 76

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected guest arrives, violently. A pair of Antivans prepare a surprise for the newly-married couple.

Outside the alcove, Anders whipped around, just barely choking back the name on his suddenly-smiling lips. "I beg your pardon. I hear an old friend," he said, extracting himself from a group that barely noticed him leaving, to rush to Nathaniel's side.

Delilah stood beside her brother, one hand across her eyes as she laughed. "Maker, Nathaniel, and you're what's protecting us from the darkspawn?"

"To be entirely fair, I was once one of the Antivan Crows," the golden-haired elf with the Orlesian mask replied, taking Delilah's free hand and bowing over it. "I am--"

"Zevran! I thought I heard you over here!" Anders's accent was so thick his words were nearly unrecognisable. "Don't worry, Howe. We will find you a healer."

Nathaniel wheezed out something that sounded like a curse -- something suggestive about Anders's mother -- and staggered over to the closest wall, bent double over himself. Still biting back her laughter, Delilah held out a hand in case she needed to stop him from falling forward onto his face.

Zevran's eyes swept over Anders. It took a moment for recognition to light up his face, but when it did, he beamed. "Ah, I did not expect to see you here, I admit," he said. "Solona sends her regrets that she could not be here. Politics. Warden business. You understand." He plucked an hors d'oeuvre from a passing tray and popped it into his mouth with a pleased hum.

"One of these days, she will actually go to something, and I will be shocked," Anders replied, clapping a hand on Nathaniel's shoulder and nearly knocking him off balance.

"Who is this that never shows up, caro?" Cormac asked as he wandered over, Maevaris's hand on his arm, and his cheeks looking somehow even more different than they had, just painted over.

"The Warden-Commander of Ferelden," Anders replied, shaking his head. "Such a busy woman."

The only sign Zevran gave that he recognised the artificial Antivan before him was the stunned arch of one eyebrow. "Ah, what is this? And I feared I might be the only Antivan at the party! I should have known better." His accent thickened as he spoke.

"I am not here in any official capacity," Cormac said, shaking his head and taking a sip of his wine. "Merely as a ... friend of the family. You may call me Mack."

"A 'friend' of the family," Anders scoffed. "I am a friend of the family. I think you are closer than that."

"Ah, that kind of 'friend', are we?" Zevran asked, waggling his eyebrows. "Sometimes, that is the best kind of friend to be. Particularly with this family, no?"

"Zevran," Nathaniel said, his voice still strained as he straightened, "I think you're a wedding too late to be considered just a friend of the family, no matter how suggestively you say the word 'friend'."

"Then I guess that makes Mack a 'friend' of _my_ family, then doesn't it?" Zevran said with a wicked smile and a suggestive look up the length of Cormac's body.

"Please stop saying the word that way," Nathaniel groused. "You are ruining it for the rest of us. Just flirt with each other in Antivan and save us all the trouble."

"My dear Lord Hawke keeps telling me I am missing out on the best things in life, and that I should have followed him into an appreciation of 'elven culture'. His husband is ill-impressed with the idea." Cormac pressed the hand holding his wine glass to his chest.

"You are a special friend of Lord Hawke?" Zevran's smile became somewhat sharper as he recovered from the surprise. Not that he hadn't noticed, but rolling it out in public as camouflage was the sort of stupid thing he'd have done, himself, if he had any family to speak of. Which he supposed he did, now. But, they still wouldn't get him into the courts of the Crows, which was where his attention lay, these days. "You lucky man. How is he... doing?"

"Very well. Even better now that I am here." Cormac puffed his chest out, looking like a golden-breasted bird. "You know him, hmm?"

"I have had that pleasure," Zevran answered, ever so slightly less than neutrally, and Maevaris's eyes widened.

"Since I arrived, I've heard all sorts of things about Lord Hawke's harem of elves, but I assumed it was just bitter rumour because he'd married one!"

"Well, I cannot attest to a whole _harem_ ," Zevran said, eyes sparkling with amusement, "but I can you that he has excellent taste in elves."

"Considering his striking husband," Maevaris said, trying to spot Fenris around the bulk of Warden Kasselmann, "I am inclined to agree."

"The tattoos are striking, certainly," Anders said, sounding only mildly interested, "but I do wonder how far down they go." He gave Fenris a speculative look as though picturing it. From across the room, he watched the elf's ears twitch, watched him look around with narrowed eyes as though suspecting he was being watched.

Nathaniel scowled in Zevran's direction, angling himself in such a way that Zevran would have to reach around him to hit his nuts again. "From that smug look, I suspect you already know," he said.

"I may have caught a peek or two," Zevran said blithely.

"I'm afraid we're much too involved with Lord Hawke to be looking at each other." Cormac said, shrugging "But he has them on his hands, feet, and face, as you can see, and all those lines lead inward. I would say you should ask if you could find out, but I know he's not very interested in beards."

Maevaris smiled politely and held her tongue. She knew -- or at least she had a very good idea -- of how far those lines went. She'd been present when Danarius's lab had been disassembled and shipped to Kirkwall. She'd seen a great deal of the paperwork surrounding his experiments, in general, and Fenris in particular. "Are you quite well, Warden Howe?"

"Fine," Nathaniel grumbled, slowly studying the movements of the crowd around them. "I've just lost sight of Lady Cousland and the ambassador. I hope they're together, as much as I suspect I'll have to rescue him from her."

Zevran emptied a waiter's tray of drinks into the hands of the group. "You intend to mount a rescue? Are you sure this is wise, my friend? I may not be one to speak, but I am also not the one who ended his last two attempts at heroism hung over in prison and lost in the Deep Roads."

"I am known for many things, Zevran, but wisdom is not one of them," Nathaniel drawled, "especially when there's a drink in my hand, which is your fault this time."

Anders bit his tongue to keep from saying anything scandalous about the combination of Nathaniel and alcohol. Disguises aside, Nathaniel's sister was present. "Perhaps they disappeared over there," he said, pointing, "behind that curtain. That looks wonderfully cosy."

Nathaniel swallowed half his drink in one swig. "Lady Cousland was heading in the opposite direction, last I saw her," he said, shaking his head. "And I know better than to be poking my head through closed curtains." He started to head off in the appointed direction. "If I am not back in an hour, assume the worst."

"Oh, I will be assuming so many things," Zevran teased. Once Nathaniel had disappeared, Zevran turned his attention back to Cormac, "So, what part of Antiva are you from?"

"It's a little village on the coast. North of Treviso, but you probably noticed that." Cormac raised a hand to his hair and smiled, his own accent subtly shifting to match Zevran's.

"Ah, that must be Afsaana I hear. Funny, I almost thought it was something more Fereldan." Zevran's eyes sparkled in amusement. "And you are from one of the merchant houses? With a name like that?"

"To trade in the north, one must be the right kind of exotic! It is an excellent name for its purpose." Cormac's smile didn't reach his eyes, as he tried to figure out if Zevran was about to out him. Surely they'd established to each other who he was, by now. Zevran was a Crow. He'd have noticed, no matter what. "And you? You come announcing yourself as a Crow! What house let you out to play?"

"Former Crow," Zevran corrected. "And now an independent agent. No one tells me who to kill, now, _except_ sometimes my wife." He grinned saucily. "She has a temper, sometimes. Usually about very sensible things. You know, we once had to kill the previous Warden-Commander of Ferelden because she was possessed by demons. You should ask her to tell you that story, if you meet her. She tells it with very many very bad words. This is the kind of thing my wife asks of me. Never anything simple, like some noble in the way of her latest plans for Amaranthine."

"I can see the advantages of having an assassin so easily available, if one is dealing with ages-old abominations." Cormac turned to look at Maevaris. "Does that sort of thing happen more often in Tevinter, with all the magic and the blood magic and the ancient demons?"

"Blood magic?" she said drily. "Why, no one uses blood magic in Tevinter! That would be terribly immoral! And illegal!" She didn't quite manage to keep a straight face.

"I would take that to mean yes," Anders said to Cormac.

"Ah, mages," Zevran sighed. "Always so high-maintenance!"

"But always worth it," Maevaris said, smiling around the lip of her glass.

"I do not know about always," Zevran replied, "but, usually, in my experience, yes."

"Well," said Anders, "one of these days, I hope the Warden-Commander is able to come to an event like this and tell us all her stories. I am convinced only half of the ones you tell us are true." He adjusted his grip on his glass, using Cormac as an armrest.

Zevran rested a hand over his heart, the very picture of wounded pride. "Only half? I assure you, Warden Kasselmann, that at least two-thirds of the stories I tell are mostly true!"

"And you've missed some of the best ones, since you've been somewhere other than where she put you, for the last three years," Delilah drawled, taking a long sip of wine, before slapping the back of Zevran's head. "The best thing I heard about your time in Gwaren was that at least you weren't Loghain."

"And you wonder why I left?" Zevran laughed. "It is not the place for an Antivan elf to hold someone else's title in Ferelden, but who else could she trust? Sadly, the Crows became involved, and I had to go take care of a problem, before anyone got hurt. Well, anyone living in Gwaren." He paused. "Congratulations, by the way. I heard, on my way in the window."

"Thank you." Delilah smiled and looked at Maevaris's feet, which were in some truly excellent shoes that she would never be able to get away with, herself. "My father never foresaw me holding a title, but none of us went to waste. It's refreshing that it's not the keep, as much as I miss the city."

"I understand." Zevran nodded, looking up at Delilah. "Truly I do." He paused. "But, when, do you think, will they have the blessing ceremony? Solona and I had a very Fereldan wedding, and I missed out on my favourite part of a good Antivan wedding. I hope the Marches are the same!"

"The... blessing?" Maevaris asked, looking faintly confused. "I thought that was the part at the end of the wedding."

"Has the prince changed his clothes then?" Zevran's eyes gleamed with mischief.

"Why would he need to change his clothes?" Maevaris exchanged a questioning look with Anders, who shrugged, just as clueless as she was. "He _was_ rather sweating a lot up there on the balcony, but..."

"Ah, they do not have that in Tevinter either?" Zevran asked. "A shame. I'm sure our friend the merchant could tell you all about it." He indicated Cormac with one raised eyebrow, pausing just long enough to make them wonder if he was actually going to leave the explanation to Cormac. "But, it is an old tradition. The community and family -- or, in this case, representatives of the kingdom -- come together to bless the newly married couple. In small towns they would walk through the streets, but in larger places such as this, they make their way around the reception hall instead."

"That actually sounds lovely," Maevaris said. "Do they pray over the couple, or...?"

"Oh, no," Zevran replied, matter-of-fact. "They spit on them. Well, on the groom, usually, but occasionally someone misses."

"And... you would like to see this," Anders said slowly, struggling to keep his accent. "You would like to see us all spitting on Sebastian?"

"Well, it's bad luck if no one does," Zevran said, brows knitting in concern.

"We should ask Lady Amell," Cormac declared. "And we should ask if they mind us using the Orlesian red for the occasion. It is an expensive gift to shower the prince in, and it must be better than swallowing it. I try to avoid swallowing anything Orlesian." His eyebrows rose suggestively.

"I feel like you are maybe missing out." Zevran grinned wickedly. "If there is one thing they make well in Orlais..."

"It's chocolate," Delilah cut in. "There's a reason my husband's Fereldan."

"But, you say we should ask Lady Amell, and not both of them? This is an odd decision." Zevran looked confused and contemplative.

"Don't tell me they actually ask the husband in Antiva City?" Cormac scoffed. "No, of course not. You'd never need to ask, in Antiva City. But, everyone knows if you want the correct answer, you ask the wife."

"And who do you ask between Lord Hawke and his husband?" Zevran asked, with a small smile.

"I don't ask at all," Cormac replied, looking a bit smug. "I do as Lord Hawke commands."

"Don't let too many people hear you say that, or this trade contract is going to go up in flames before you even get to the table," Zevran warned, looking around the room. "Ah, but I do not see Lady Amell, so we will have to wait. Perhaps another traditional game, while we wait?"

"Do we have enough players for traditional wedding games?" Cormac asked, accent thicker than ever. "I think maybe we should bring over some more."

"That is an excellent plan," Zevran said with a smile that was all teeth. He looked around, surveying his options. "And perhaps a good excuse to get your Lord Hawke to stop rearranging the hors d'oeuvres. I imagine the viscount would be interested, as well, but he seems to have disappeared."

"On that note, has anyone seen Knight-Commander Cullen?" Maevaris asked. "I had hoped to get to know him better, but..."

"I suspect the viscount has seen him," Anders replied archly. "And possibly is still seeing him. They are, perhaps, up to their own traditional wedding games?"

"Then that was terribly rude of them not to invite us!" Zevran laughed. "Come. Let us gather some players and meet back here."

"We shall see who wins, yes?" Cormac laughed and swept off toward Artemis, leaving Anders standing between Maevaris and Delilah.

"Abandoned with two beautiful women. I am a very lucky man." Anders smiled at each of them in turn.


	77. Never Have I Ever (1/?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran decides this party needs a good drinking game and a great deal more embarrassment.

Cormac approached the couple and plucked an hors d'oeuvre from the platter Artemis was rearranging. Fenris shot him a baleful look, but he stuck the thing in his mouth, licked the cream from his fingers, and went on. "Come quickly, my dear. Your favourite Crow is here, and he has challenged me to some 'Antivan games', which are only going to last until he asks Bethany if we can spit wine on her husband."

"What." One of Fenris's ears stuck almost straight out to the side. "I understood all the words in that sentence, but not the order you put them in."

"Well, I wasn't talking to you, anyway, but you should come, too." Cormac stuck out his tongue and nicked another canapé.

Artemis blinked at his brother even as he allowed himself to be dragged away from the tray. "Is there a reason we're spitting wine on Sebastian? Has he done something to warrant wine-spitting behaviour?" It sounded messy and like the sort of thing that would stain all that white, but he refrained from pointing that out.

"Seems like a waste of wine," Fenris grumbled, following the mages, "even if it is one of the Orlesian vintages."

As they approached where Anders stood, telling wild tales of fighting darkspawn to Delilah and Maevaris, a gasp and a clatter could be heard from behind the fallen curtain of a nearby alcove.

"Sounds like someone's having fun," Cormac quipped, glancing over his shoulder at Fenris. "Maybe someone's already gotten into the Orlesian vintages."

On the other side of the curtain, Anton smothered a laugh against Cullen's crotch, taking far more than was usual for him into his mouth. Once he was quite sure there would be no giggling to give them away, he pulled back, letting his husband's flesh slide slowly out of his mouth.

Cullen glared down, still gnawing at a knuckle, to where his lunatic husband knelt between his legs. There were people outside this ill-shielded alcove. Not just one person, but several people, drinking and about to play some sort of party game. This had been a terrible idea, he thought, curling his fingers into Anton's hair. A genuinely bad plan... but Anton's tongue was very convincing, particularly when he used it just like that.

Anton peered up at him, catching the glare and meeting it with a smirk, or as much of a smirk as he could make with his mouth full. Cullen's fingers massaged Anton's scalp, grip tightening in Anton's hair for a fraction of a moment when -- _yes_. That right there. That was good. Cullen was going to leave teethmarks on his hand by the time Anton was finished with him. 

Someone mentioned their names, and Cullen bit down harder, enough to sting, but Anton barely paused. There was someone asking about them, someone whose voice he knew somewhere outside this alcove where his mind wasn't a curtained haze of tongue and lips and Anton. He swore he could feel Anton smile around him, but the way Anton hummed around him the next moment was distraction enough.

"You know, I went to find Viscount Kirkwall and his terribly blushy husband," Zevran was saying, as he returned with Merrill at his side, "but, they are nowhere to be found. I found only the charming Baroness."

"Did you check the coat closets?" Cormac laughed. "I have heard some rumours."

"Oh, yes!" Merrill smiled brightly. "No one is to open a coat closet at the Amell estate during a party. It's more likely they'll find swords than coats."

"That every couple could get along so brilliantly..." Zevran smiled wistfully. "Of course, if that were true, all of Orlais and Antiva would fall into a funk. So many scandals would be avoided. A travesty!"

"What is this game that I hear needs more players?" Fenris asked, changing the subject before the subject could turn to his and Artemis's relationship.

"Ah!" Zevran produced a bottle of wine. "I do not expect you are all excellent drinkers, so we will drink lightly, but it is a game of many drinks. We will go around the circle and everyone must state something they have not done -- no scandal there, yes? And then if you have done it, you will drink. It is a very simple game, but very popular in Antiva City."

Anders knew Zevran was full of shit -- in fact, he'd taught the elf that game. It had been popular, _in the Circle_. He did wonder where Zevran was going with it, though.

"You mean to imply that there are some things you haven't done?" Fenris drawled.

"The list is shorter than for most people, I admit, but it is still a list." Zevran's smile was all teeth. "I will start, and then we will go around. Never have I ever..." Zevran paused for effect, looking over the gathering in front of him. "...been to the Anderfels."

"Oh, that's how it is?" Anders huffed to Zevran's amusement. He took a drink of wine, a healthy gulp, knowing his Warden stamina would take care of the rest.

"So... if we've been to the Anderfels, we drink?" Artemis asked, unsure if he was concerned or intrigued.

"Yes," Zevran answered.

Artie exchanged a look with Fenris and shrugged, each of them taking a sip of wine.

Cormac also drank. "I am forging an overland trade route," he said, with a shrug.

"Never have I ever kissed Fenris!" Merrill declared, figuring that would be an easy one. Only Artemis would drink for that, she thought.

"Do you think it only counts on the lips?" Cormac asked, eyeing Anders.

"Have you, then? I did not think he was interested!" Anders chuckled.

"Me? I thought you had!" Cormac blinked up in surprise. "But, maybe somewhere other than the lips..."

"Mmm." Anders nodded sagely. "Your mistake." His mouth had been on Fenris enough, certainly, but he wasn't sure he would qualify any of those instances as kissing. Licking, maybe, but not kissing.

Artemis grumbled before taking a drink. "If your plan is to get me drunk, I assure you there are easier ways." He leaned into Fenris. "Don't worry. Your kisses are worth it."

"I am pleased to hear it, Amatus," Fenris said with a smug smile. He cleared his throat. "So, my turn? Hmm... never have I ever made out with a templar."

Artie's face turned cherry red, and he leaned away. "I take it back," he hissed before sullenly taking a drink. Fenris chuckled and apologised with a kiss that Artie grudgingly accepted.

Quietly, Anders sipped his wine, while Merrill squealed around her drink. "Ohh, a templar, Artie?" she asked, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "Give us details! I want to compare notes!"

A strangled sound caught in Artie's throat. "Firstly, that's my brother you'd be comparing it to, and secondly... _no_. No is not a strong enough word." He turned and tried to hide his face against Cormac's shoulder.

"My darling Lord Hawke speaks little of his adventures with those not present. He has a wonderful sense of tact." Cormac tipped Artemis's face up with the tip of his finger, pressing a chaste kiss to Artemis's lips.

"What a shame he doesn't kiss and tell. I'm very sure he has some wonderful stories," Zevran chimed in, licking a drop of wine off his lip. Several templars he could count, for himself, and all of them dead -- but it was Antiva.

"What about you, my dear?" Maevaris smiled at Merrill. "Will you share your stories, anyway? I have never kissed a templar, but we barely have templars in Qarinus, and certainly not like you have them here! Your Ser Carver is terribly handsome. I can only imagine his kisses are as powerful as his shoulders."

"Oh, yes!" Merrill smiled back. "And he's even better than that! He's the best sworder in all of Kirkwall!"

Cormac barely refrained from emptying the rest of his glass down his throat. "Mmm, I don't know about that..." he purred, smiling slyly at Artemis.

"About that," Artemis sighed, voice strained. "Merrill, what did I say about mentioning my brother's swording? There's not enough wine in this room to block out the images." He almost took a drink out of force of habit, but stopped himself before the drink got to his lips. "Right. So I'm next?" He hummed and chewed his lip before shrugging and going with the obvious. "Never have I ever had sex with a woman."

Zevran's eyebrows rose. "Never?" he repeated over his drink.

"Never saw the appeal," Artie admitted. "No offence, ladies."

As one, everyone other than Maevaris and Delilah took a drink.

"You are definitely missing out," Merrill said to them and Artie.

"I think his harem is sizeable enough with just men to fill it," Anders teased. "With women too, there would be no one left!"

"But, look at this divine body," Cormac rhapsodised, putting an arm around Artie's waist and pulling him closer. "Should anyone be left?" He smiled up at Artemis, devotion obvious in his eyes, and then let go and looked back to the group, cheeks no darker, because they'd been painted over. "But, it is my turn to declare, is it not? What have I not done?"

Zevran laughed. "A difficult question, at times, is it not?"

"And the present company have mostly contributed to that difficulty!" Cormac shook his head and shrugged broadly. "Never have I ever ... gotten a tattoo below my chest!" He winked at Maevaris.

Fenris did not drink, but Zevran and Delilah both did.

Merrill shot a confused look at Fenris's feet.

"They are not tattoos," Fenris replied, smugly.

"Cheater," Artemis teased, still leaning into Cormac.

The group turned expectant eyes towards Anders, the next in the line. He puffed himself up and made a great show of thinking it over, tugging at his braided beard and humming under his breath. "Never have I ever," he said, words thick in his accent, "fucked an elf."

"That is not what I remember," Zevran cut in before any wine could be drunk.

Anders's grin was broad and unfaltering. "I said 'fucked an elf'. Not 'was fucked by an elf'."

Again, everyone but Delilah and Maevaris took a drink, but Fenris sputtered on his his when he caught sight of Merrill. " _What?_ "

"What?" Merrill blinked at Fenris. "And she was very pretty, too. We had a lovely time. Oh." She paused. "Does it count if it was double-ended?"

Cormac and Zevran looked at each other, contemplatively.

"I'm going to say yes," Cormac decided, nodding. "I'm going to say that counts for both directions, because it is both directions. Because if you don't count it for one, you can't count it for the other, and then it's neither, when that is obviously not the case, yes? Yes."

Zevran nodded along. "I'm going to agree, in this case. Definitely both."

Fenris's right ear twitched, and he shook himself, trying not to picture that too clearly.

The group looked at Delilah for her turn, but as she was considering, her brother returned, breaking into their circle next to Maevaris. "Well, this is ominous," Nathaniel said, narrowing his eyes at the lot of them. "All of you in a circle, with drinks in your hands?"

"We are playing a game," Zevran informed him. "I see you have escaped unscathed or at least only slightly used? You should find a glass and join us! I already have the booze." He held up the bottle of wine. "It is your sister's turn!"

Nathaniel squinted at Delilah. "That sounds even more ominous." Still, he accepted a glass when Anders pressed it into his hand.

"Never have I ever had a threesome with my brother," Delilah declared, glancing past Merrill to see Ser Carver approaching. Maevaris was right -- he was handsome, but ... young.

Anders looked at Fenris pointedly and took a drink.

Fenris swirled the wine in his glass, staring into it, as Zevran took a swig.

Cormac tapped his glass against Artemis's and took a drink. "I was there for that."

"You don't even have a brother!" Anders protested, pointing at Zevran.

"He may not have lived," Zevran primly replied, "but I still considered him my brother."

While everyone's eyes were on Zevran, Artie surreptitiously took a drink.


	78. Scandalous Uses for Questionable Spaces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anton and Cullen are interrupted. Nathaniel finds his office occupied. Elissa is not even slightly deterred.

As Carver's arm slid around Merrill, he suddenly changed course, pushing between Merrill and Fenris to yank Cormac out of his place in the circle and punch him. His fist bounced off the shields, but he just kept pounding, until Cormac grabbed his fist and stepped out of the way, redirecting Carver into the curtained alcove.

"Sorry!" Cormac called out as Carver tripped, yanking the curtain taut.

"Oh, ew! Anton! What--!" Carver struggled to untangle himself from the curtain as Anton struggled to stand. "Don't tell me! I don't want to know!"

"Oh, Maker! Don't you ever knock, Carver!" Cullen cried out, attempting to rebuckle some hanging plates as the curtain fluttered around him, thankfully pulled in such a way as to shield him to just below the hip.

"You killed your brother?" Anton wasn't going to let Zevran off that easily.

"He killed our sister!" Zevran protested, leaving out the part where he'd helped. But, he'd regretted it. Taliesin never had.

"I'm contemplating killing one of my own brothers if he doesn't _knock it off_ ," Artie snapped. He handed his wine to Fenris and pulled his flailing idiot of a youngest brother out of the tangle of curtain and partly dressed family members. 

"I heard what he said about you and Cormac," Carver grumbled, stumbling back when Artie pushed him back in Merrill's direction. He was, at least, keeping up the façade, which was some relief. "That is just--!"

"Oh, please, you already knew that!" Artemis said, face burning a dark red. "Half of Kirkwall knew that! You didn't need to take it out on the nearest Antivan!"

"Or the viscount," Anton protested, voice muffled behind the curtain, which shifted now as the pair behind it moved, trying to right their clothing. "Next time, just save yourself the trouble and punch yourself, please!"

Carver kicked the moving curtain, getting a muffled swear in response.

"And how are you so sure which brother it is?" Cormac smiled widely. "Were you watching? I think you weren't. How do you know it wasn't the Viscount?"

"He knows because Cullen wouldn't stand for it," Cullen muttered, as the curtain rod popped free and swung down to crack him in the shoulder and leave him buried in forty pounds of velvet.

Nathaniel looked around him like everyone had suddenly turned into dragon cultists.

"It's your turn," Delilah reminded him, with a nudge.

"Well, I, for one, have never snogged my sister, and on that note..." Nathaniel shoved the glass into Carver's hand and turned to walk away, but Delilah grabbed the back of his hair and pulled, making kissing noises.

"Oh! No! That-- Ew!" Nathaniel batted futilely at his sister, completely off balance. "Get off me, Dee! That's gross!"

"You're a mage, aren't you?" Maevaris whispered in Cormac's ear, while everyone else was distracted by the Howes. "He never hit you once. There's no blood. Not a mark on you."

Cormac winked and raised his eyebrows suggestively. "I'm just a very talented man."

Artemis slid up next to Cormac, slipping an arm around his waist. "I'm sorry about my little shit of a brother," he said, kissing Cormac's temple. "He didn't hurt you, did he?"

"Maybe just a little bit right here," Cormac replied, eyes sparkling as he tapped the corner of his mouth. "You should kiss it better." He shot a terribly wry look at Carver over Artie's shoulder.

Artemis pressed a kiss to the corner of Cormac's lips. "There. Do my lips have healing properties?"

Carver ground his teeth hard enough to make them creak, but Merrill squeezed his arm and did her best to distract him.

Behind the Hawkes, Fenris gave his (and Artemis's) drink a wry look before turning a smirk Anders's way. "Although I like to think of you as a sister, snogging is something we have not done." His tone left no illusions that he wanted that to change.

"A sister?" Anders tried not to look offended. His accent slipped for the barest moment, but he recovered. "At least I didn't bring a magister to your wedding, unlike your _actual_ sister!" He paused, cutting a glance in Maevaris's direction. "No offence to present company."

Maevaris waved the comment aside. "I have heard the story. I am a different class of magister, I assure you."

Nathaniel finally wrested free of his sister's grip and backed away, tugging at his clothes, to straighten them, his hair falling almost back to where he meant it to be, aside from the wisps Delilah had pulled free of the plaits. He glanced at Fenris and then stared at Anders in horror, memories of their last visit to the Deep Roads fresh in his mind. "That is disgusting. This is all disgusting. I don't know what I expected from people standing around with my sister, but this shouldn't surprise me." He threw his hands up and continued backing away, barely missing a waiter with a tray of drinks. "If anyone wants me -- No. If Elissa is looking for me, I'll be in my office. With the door closed and a bottle of something old and expensive."

"Old and expensive. That's always been your taste, hasn't it, Howe?" Anders called after him, chuckling.

Nathaniel made a horribly disgruntled noise and spun around, disappearing into the crowd. His office would be safe. Nothing untoward ever happened in his office, with the exception of sorting hundreds of scented letters intended for Sebastian. And those had slowed down as the wedding grew closer. In fact, the air in there was nearly breathable, again. Yes. Everything would be fine, once he was behind that thick, sturdy door.

As he came up on it, he grabbed the door handle and walked directly into the door, for reasons he couldn't possibly imagine. Fine. The latch wasn't working properly. As he jiggled it, he thought he could hear voices from in the room.

"Shh!" and then a breathy giggle.

"Oh, shit!" And that sounded like Jenet.

"Jenet? You all right in there?" Nathaniel called out. "The door's not stuck for you too, is it?" The alternative was something he didn't even want to consider.

"Uhh... yes. That is it. I went to leave something on your desk, and... the door stuck. Oh well."

That was not the tone of someone telling the truth, and Nathaniel blinked at his door, wondering what he had done to deserve tonight. And what his office had done to deserve whatever degradation it was going through right now.

"Right," Nathaniel drawled. "Shall I kick the door down, then?"

"No!" Jenet was quick to protest. Nathaniel heard another voice whisper, heard Jenet softly shush them. "I will figure out how to get it open. No need to damage your door or potentially hurt yourself, but thank you, Messere Howe."

"Don't mention it," Nathaniel told the door. He was sure there was some place else he could hole himself with a large drink. And by large drink, he meant bottle.

"Oh, there you are!" Elissa's voice rang down the hall, and Nathaniel turned to spot her coming toward him, wearing a lovely blue dress in a Tevinter cut. Except the last he'd seen her, she'd been wearing a yellow dress in an Orlesian style. "Is your office free, my love? Perhaps we could--"

"No, in fact, Jenet is stuck in my office and has requested to remain so." Nathaniel threw his hands up.

"You seem terribly tense, darling." Elissa slid an arm around Nathaniel's waist, leading him back toward the party. "Let's get a few drinks in you and then we can find a room that no one's stuck in. How about Jenet's office? Turnabout is only fair play!"

"Andraste preserve me. You are evil. You know that, right? I've mentioned it before?" Nathaniel shook his head. "Why don't we find a nice room that actually has a bed in it, so neither of us wind up with papercuts in uncomfortable places?"

"Where's your sense of adventure?"

"I left it in my other trousers with my sense of humour, apparently," Nathaniel muttered, pulling Elissa closer and kissing the side of her head.

"Hmm, are you sure they're not in here somewhere? Maybe we should check the pockets, just in case."

Nathaniel straightened, catching her wrist. "I assure you that was not my pocket. And be careful with those. They just survived an Antivan assault."

"Is that what we're calling it, now?" Elissa asked, eyes twinkling with mischief. Still, she withdrew her hand, resting it instead on Nathaniel's hip. "Very well then, let us find a place with a bed to misuse. Would the bridal suite be too scandalous?"

"Yes," Nathaniel said without hesitation. "Though I don't know how much 'misuse' that bed will be subjected to anyway."

"No? It's their wedding night! Has no one had The Talk with Sebastian?"

"I did," Nathaniel assured her, face pinched.

"Oh, well, if you did, that's the problem." Elissa shook her head and laughed. "I love you, but we both know you can barely even say the words for what you like."

Nathaniel looked horrified and pinched Elissa's bottom. "Yes, I can! I just won't... say them in front of company. What you and I do is for us to enjoy, not half of Thedas."

"Then I will expect you to say a great many incredibly dirty things after about four more drinks," Elissa purred. "But, what did you tell him?"

"I told him to listen to Bethany and do exactly what she told him to. She seems very capable." Nathaniel nodded, paused, and then shook his head. "But, it's less what I said to him and more what he said to me! He doesn't want to! He wants me to do it instead!"

"Instead of Bethany? He likes men?" Elissa's eyes rounded. "I would never have suspected it!"

"No!" Nathaniel's eyes crossed and he blinked a few times. "Not with him! With her! He wants me to sleep with his wife so he doesn't have to!"

"Well, you told him yes, didn't you?" Elissa squeezed Nathaniel's hip, with a hopeful smile. "I'd love to hear what she tells you about the situation in Starkhaven after she meets your Warden stamina. Other nobles say the most delicious things, once you tire them out."

Nathaniel looked askance at her as they walked. "Are you really encouraging me to do this? What am I saying? Of course you are." He pinched the bridge of his nose.

"What, you mean to tell me you haven't thought about it?" Elissa asked, raising one delicately plucked eyebrow. "I'll bet you _she_ has."

"That really doesn't..." Nathaniel fumbled for words. "The man is asking me to _sleep with his wife_. His new wife. The one he has only just married." He pitched his voice low in case any unfortunate passers-by happened on their conversation. "I'm trying to point out the absurdity of this situation, not give you ideas!"

"What else can one do with an absurd situation?" Elissa laughed. She stretched up to kiss his cheek. "I'm trying to help you make the best of it. And, really, that seems a simple enough solution. You don't even need to sneak around Sebastian's back!"

"Andraste's ass aflame," Nathaniel grumbled, giving up. "Several drinks, and then you and I can find a nice room with a bed, so we can avoid any international incidents."

"International 'incidents' are half the fun, at things like this!" Elissa kneaded Nathaniel's bottom with one hand. "I do wish you'd join me for some."

"Drinks," Nathaniel insisted.


	79. Never Have I Ever (2/3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yet more bizarre revelations, this time including Anton and Cullen.

Anton kept an arm firmly around Cullen's waist as the game circled around to them. "This can't be too difficult."

"You two will join us?" Zevran encouraged, holding up a fresh bottle he'd acquired from somewhere. "Very simple game. You say what you have not done, everyone who has done it drinks."

Anton nodded. "So I gathered. Seems simple enough." He smiled up at Cullen, who nodded along. "Never have I ever... been to Orlais!"

Only Anders drank. "I do not expect I will go again. I did not think much of Orlais."

Cullen tried to keep his eyes off of Anders, staring curiously at the ground. Orlais? When would Anders have been in Orlais? And then it came to him -- the Imperial Highway came into Ferelden through Orlais, and if they'd brought him overland instead of across the sea... but the overland journey was a nightmare, he'd heard. And then he realised the group was staring.

"Oh, ah, is it my turn, then?" Cullen coughed. "Never have I ever had inappropriate relations with a Circle Mage."

Zevran's glass was the first to tip up. "And then I married her," he laughed.

Fenris was halfway through his sip when Anders cut in, "Wardens don't count!"

"Even if they used to be Circle mages?" Artie asked, glass part way to his lips.

"If they were Circle mages at the time, yes. But if they were already wardens? No. The Wardens are not under the Chantry's purview." Anders punctuated this proclamation with a sip of his own -- a sip that was more a gulp.

"Damn," Fenris muttered. "That was unclear."

"It still is, to me," Maevaris asked. "Do you mean specifically southern Circles or do the Circles in Tevinter count as well? I know they mean different things to you."

"I, uh." Cullen mulled it over. "Sure. Tevinter Circles count too."

Maevaris saluted him with her drink and took a sip.

Fenris stared down into his wine glass, wondering if that meant he would have had a drink either way. He didn't want to think too hard on it.

Zevran glanced around the circle. "So many of you could even have questions about it! Naughty! What would Her Holiness say?"

"I think Her Holiness might be more concerned that we are drinking with a Crow," Cormac teased, holding out his glass for a refill.

"And do you know her, then?" Zevran asked. "Solona met her once, just after the Blight. It was wonderful to hear she had survived. It was more wonderful when she became the Divine."

"I haven't had the pleasure, though I know all those with controversial views and extraordinary power fear the Crows." Cormac smiled wryly.

"All the more if they're paying us!" Zevran grinned. "But, I am a Crow no longer. Hmm..." His eye lit on Maevaris. "Never have I ever enjoyed a private evening with a magister!" He swirled the contents of his glass. "I might be willing to drink the next time it comes up, though."

Maevaris chuckled, watching Zevran over her glass. "Hmm... Does it count if he wasn't a magister yet?"

Fenris stared down at his wine, swirling the glass. 'Enjoy' was, he supposed, the key word in that sentence. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Artemis watching him. Fenris offered him a smile and didn't drink.

Artemis let out the breath he had been holding. "Does smacking one around at my wedding count? It was a private wedding, and I certainly enjoyed that."

"Not evening, though," Anton pointed out regretfully. "However, I think it was evening when we met that, uh, _charming_ ancient magister." He tapped his chin. "Does it count if there were six of us and we ended up killing him?"

Delilah looked back and forth between the brothers, concerned.

"Yes, that was enjoyable too," Artie agreed. "Nothing says romance like firelight."

Anders choked on his wine, face turning a vivid red, as Maevaris clapped him on the back.

"Thank," Anders wheezed, not quite able to get two words in a row, yet.

"What's this about ancient magisters?" Maevaris asked curiously. "How old was he?"

"A thousand or so, if he was telling the truth," Fenris said, with a dismissive wave. "Magisters, though. Who knows?"

"There is something genuinely wrong with the lot of you," Delilah decided, looking around the group.

"Yes, but you get used to it," Cullen agreed. "I'm always glad I skipped that particular family holiday."

"Ah, Delilah, you sound so surprised!" Zevran clapped a hand to his chest, grinning.

"Are we not friends of your brother?" Anders asked, smile hidden in his flowered beard. "I would think that speaks enough for us!"

Delilah sighed. "You're right, of course. Nathaniel's friends. I shouldn't be surprised."

A crooked smile settled on Fenris's face. "Never have I ever had sex with an elf."

"Liar," Anders pointed out.

"That depends heavily on your definition of 'had sex'," Fenris argued, crossing his arms. "Fine. We've argued over too many in a row. Never have I ever had sex with a member of the Amell family other than my husband."

"Asshole," Cullen muttered, taking a drink. "Wait, other than _your_ husband or other than an Amell we were married to?"

"Either of those is still true for you," Fenris reminded him, "but I meant other than Artemis."

Anders and Zevran drank while Artemis didn't. At least three people in this circle knew he was cheating, but he would be happy to drink as much as they wanted later to make up for it.

But then Maevaris took a drink, and that was the furthest thing from anyone's mind. Artie shot an accusing look at Anton, who shook his head and shrugged, turning to eye Cormac.

"No one at this wedding," Maevaris clarified after catching the exchange of looks. "He was probably a cousin of yours. He was certainly as charming as the rest of your family."

"Another Amell?" Anton asked, eyebrows shooting up. "I didn't think Thedas was up for it. I hope he did the family proud."

"Oh, he did," Maevaris purred.

They waited for Artie's turn next, while Artie stared out at nothing, deep in thought. Fenris nudged him, and he blinked. "I'm trying to think of something I haven't done. It's worryingly difficult."

"I'm having the opposite problem," Delilah sighed, mourning her still-full wine glass.

Artemis's face brightened with an idea. "Ah! Never have I ever been a parent."

Delilah cheered and finally had a drink, taking more than a sip.

Cormac sighed and took a sip. "Half a drink. Only half."

" _What?_ " Anton demanded.

"Hey, you weren't the one changing nappies, Viscount," Cormac shot back, bringing himself up short, before he could give himself away. "Younger siblings. Far too many of them. Insufficient parents. I was deputised from the first, but it didn't get gory until the third."

Artie pursed his lips, careful not to say the first thing that came to mind. "And so, what, you viewed them as your children? Half-children?" He glanced at Cormac's drink. He wasn't sure that was something he wanted to think about.

"Step-children?" Cormac shrugged. "Someone else's, but mine to look after." He put an arm around Artemis and rested his head on Artie's shoulder. "Consider with me: would you not consider yourself half a parent, if you had been changing Carver's nappies and quieting him when he cried?" He put it in terms of Carver, so much younger than either of them, to calm the objection he could see on Artemis's face. Still, it had been true, when they were younger. He liked to think he'd played more of a role in Artemis's growing up than their mother had, or at least a better one.

"A nanny's half a mother, sure," Delilah agreed, after a moment's thought. "A live-in, to do the worst of it. I haven't got one for Thomas, but we had one growing up."

Maevaris nodded. "I had one as well. More a mother than either of my parents -- but I adored them all the same. Wonderful, but so busy. It's not easy being a magister." She smiled at Cormac. "I think it's sweet of you to have tried to help."

"Less sweet" Cormac muttered. "More necessary." He glanced around. "My turn, isn't it? Never have I ever carved a turnip or any other root vegetable into a knob," he declared, narrowing his eyes at Anton. "Speaking of annoying younger siblings."

"You evil Antivan parsnip," Anton said. But, looking around, everyone except for Maevaris and Fenris were drinking as well. His husband's blush was bright enough to let off its own light.

"Fereldan turnip-carving traditions were always such a joy to me," Anders said, beaming. "I see those traditions did not make it as far as Tevinter?"

"I'm afraid we only use turnips for their traditional purposes," Maevaris replied. "Though I admit to being intrigued. I did not know that turnips were large enough for such... artwork?" 

"I don't think artwork is the word I would use," Fenris muttered.

"So many abusers of vegetables!" Zevran laughed. "I approve." He refilled a couple glasses and gestured for Anders to take his turn.

"Never have I ever..." Anders said, stroking his beard, "owned a dog."

"You're all going after the Fereldans now," Anton harrumphed. "I see how it is."

"Just shut up and drink," Artie sighed. He pointed at Anton. "And technically the dog was always yours, so I'm not drinking."

Delilah took another drink. "At least I'll have a few sips if it's open season on Fereldan traditions."

"Well, if you come to know Antivan traditions a little better, I'm sure you'll find a few things to strike back with," Zevran suggested. "I, for one, would be happy to introduce you to several. Or perhaps we should ask the handsome trader?"

"Ask me what, like the tradition of building broken glass into the windowsills of fine houses, to keep out the Crows?" Cormac fluttered his eyelashes and smiled at Zevran.

"Fools. It wouldn't keep out sparrows." Zevran shook his head. "What about offering one's favour to the host of any grand event? Or perhaps you were not so high as to have that pleasure?"

Bethany had made her way to right behind where Zevran stood, a nudge at his mind turning his attention away, until she spoke. "And you, serah? Will you be offering your ... favour?"

"Ah! Lady Amell!" Zevran turned and bowed over her hand, eyes never leaving her face. "I would be happy to make such an offer, if I thought you would accept. But, these are the Marches, I am an elf, and it is your wedding day. Perhaps Messere Kestrel could make the offer with less offence."

"The lady has my favour and could call upon it as she wished. I put it to her husband that she has not, already." Cormac grinned and crossed his arms as if he hadn't just implied he meant to sleep with his sister.

"You think rather highly of yourself, Messere Kestrel," Bethany said, eyes twinkling with amusement. "But it is, as you say, my wedding night."

"Stop flirting with my sister," Artemis said, leaning into Cormac. "It will end poorly for you. And I don't mean that in a threatening way. Bethy is not to be underestimated."

"Care to join us, Bethy?" Anton asked. "Or is the hoard going to steal you away again? We're playing a drinking game, and we're running out of things we haven't done."

"Oh? Even Cullen?" Bethany teased. "Have you corrupted him so profoundly over the course of your marriage?"

"Completely," Cullen assured her.


	80. Never Have I Ever (3/3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cormac and Zevran propose an Antivan blessing for Sebastian. Maevaris needs to talk to Anton about a mutual friend.

"Ah, but before we resume," Zevran cut in, "I believe Messere Kestrel has a question for you. I would ask, but you clearly have a better rapport with him."

Cormac shot a dirty glare at Zevran. "What my fellow Antivan means is that we are curious if you will be undertaking the traditional Antivan wedding blessing."

"Seeing as we are not in Antiva, it didn't even cross our minds, but how delightful that we have Antivans on hand to offer us a blessing we might otherwise have gone without!" Bethany smiled at her brother and then at Zevran. "What must we do to accept this wonderful gift? Shall I bring back the Grand Cleric? Would she know how to perform it? Or is this one of those peasant traditions that has held the people for longer than the Chantry?"

"I shall let my dear friend explain the finer points of the tradition." Cormac smiled blandly at Zevran. "He is familiar with the way it is done in Antiva City."

"It is quite simple. A procession of the bride and groom around the hall, so those present may visit their good wishes upon the groom." Zevran's smile didn't falter in the least.

"Come, don't leave out the best part, now that you have the lady here to ask!" Cormac looked like he'd either burst out laughing or strangle Zevran, and he wasn't sure which yet. "How is it they convey their best wishes, in Antiva City, again?"

"How else?" Zevran asked, as though the answer should be obvious. "By offering a prayer to the Maker and spitting on them. Or, more specifically, the groom. Our charming merchant friend here is of the opinion that using an Orlesian red for this occasion would make it that much more special!"

Bethany smiled as though unsure if he were joking, eyes narrowing as she looked back and forth between the 'Antivans'. But Zevran didn't flinch or laugh or react in any way that would indicate he was lying. Bethany glanced back at her husband -- and that was a word she hadn't wrapped her head around yet -- and considered his fine white clothing.

"Well, if that's how it is in Antiva," she said. "It would be rude to turn away a blessing! Shall we do it now, do you think? Or should we let him mingle a bit more first?"

"I am greatly in favour of letting it end the evening!" Cormac declared, glad for a way out of putting himself directly in Sebastian's line of sight, for the moment. "What better close to an excellent event than an Antivan blessing for a good future." Besides, Sebastian would be drunk by then, he hoped.

"Indeed, it would be terrible to try to interrupt the festivities at this point in the works. Let us position him near the exit, at the end of the night, and allow the guests to offer their blessings, as they return to their lodgings," Zevran agreed, far too easily. "That way we can invite the people of all nations of Thedas to pay their respects! Let us not discriminate on this important occasion!"

Anton looked much too entertained at the idea. "I look forward to paying my respects to your new husband, sister-dear. I've been looking for an excuse since he left Kirkwall."

" _Anton!_ " Cullen hissed, struggling to keep a straight face.

"Well, it's true! I could give him a moment by moment accounting of his influence on the state of my city, or I could simply provide the Antivan blessing he so richly deserves for his troubles."

Delilah looked between Anton and Bethany, before she spoke. "Well, don't think Ferelden will be outdone in that regard! I'll fetch Elissa, when it's time. We wouldn't want to seem ungrateful for the hospitality of the Marches."

"I am certain Nathaniel will approve of your decision, Lady Howe." Anders barely contained a chuckle.

Artemis shook his head, laughing even though he looked mildly horrified. "That... sounds terribly messy. I might need to sit out the blessing, but I'll trust my husband to offer a blessing worthy of both of us."

"Oh, I'll offer him a blessing worthy of all Tevinter," Fenris assured him with an impish look.

"It's so good to see such enthusiasm for foreign traditions!" Zevran exclaimed, raising his wine glass. "This is shaping up to be a memorable night! But come, Viscount, fetch a glass for your sister so she may join us!"

"Oh, I am sure my brothers have been drinking enough to proudly represent the Hawkes," Bethany demurred. "But I was actually hoping to talk to the Marquis of Serault about a commission before she disappeared. Perhaps I'll join you for a round later?" She gave Anton a kiss on the cheek and disappeared back into the crowd, manoeuvring her heavy skirts behind her.

"That's probably in her best interest," Artemis said. "I suspect there isn't much she hasn't done either."

"The things she has done are much stranger than the things you or I have done," Cormac pointed out.

"I'm not sure if they're stranger than the things I've done," Anton muttered, swirling his wine. "If only because I'm not a mage."

Anton leaned back to get a better look past Zevran. "Is that the ambassador just in?" he asked, gesturing toward the red-haired figure with the mis-buttoned jacket. "Is that _our cousin_ he's with?"

"Someone looks like they had a delightful time. A lot of truly delightful times going around this evening..." Zevran followed Anton's gaze. "None for me, but it's early yet. Perhaps I have not yet had enough cordial to see the appeal of Orlesians. Aside from one particular friend of your other cousin, whom I wished to teach me all the subtle joys of Orlais. But, alas, she took no joy in elves."

"Is it because you've all got the knobs of mice?" Maevaris teased. "I have heard many women are turned off by that. I have also heard many men prefer it. I prefer a good solid dwarf." A flicker of sadness crossed her face. "Which reminds me, Viscount, we should speak, later, on the subject of a dwarf of our mutual acquaintance."

"Oh?" Anton stilled, but nothing but polite curiosity showed on his face. "Have you been putting him to terrible uses?"

Maevaris chuckled. "Not me, no, but hopefully he will return to Kirkwall no worse for wear."

Anton frowned but didn't ask. This wasn't the time or the place for questions no matter how burning his curiosity.

"Is it my turn?" Maevaris asked. "Hm. Never have I ever... appreciated just how short the ambassador wears his tunic until just now." She craned her neck, peering past Zevran at Jenet, who was doing his best to act like he hadn't disappeared with Charade.

Zevran and Artemis clinked their wine glasses together before taking a drink. Fenris turned to consider Jenet with an appraising look.

"I have seen better," Fenris sniffed, sneaking a pinch to Artie's behind.

"How romantic of you," Artemis teased. He glanced at Jenet and then sought out Charade, who was talking to a red-faced Gamlen. "Oh dear, it looks like our uncle is either drunker or more irritated than usual. Possibly both. Do you think he saw the two of them walk in?"

"Need I go impose upon your uncle?" Anders offered, gazing easily over all the heads in his way, as he sipped his wine, thoughtfully.

"You and Messere Kestrel are the last I would send. Where is the ever-charming Lady Cousland?" Anton asked, craning his neck for a better view of the room.

"Off in a corner somewhere ravishing my brother, no doubt," Delilah sighed. "Never have I ever been able to forget the first time I walked in on my brother and his... enthusiastic appreciation of someone else's nudity."

Cormac immediately finished his drink. "I have many brothers."

Anders shrugged. "I am terribly lucky. I have been spared. _Your_ brother though, I have witnessed in that position. I think all of Vigil's Keep has seen."

Artemis took a long drink.

"At least you didn't walk in on mom and dad," Anton said with a shudder. "That's worth drinking the whole bottle."

"At least you learned to knock after that," Artie countered.

"It was in the _kitchen_!"

Cullen tried and failed not to laugh at his husband's trauma. He thanked the Maker he never had that experience, with siblings or parents. Other templars, on the other hand... "I'm still waiting for Carver to learn how to knock."

"It's rather difficult to knock on a curtain," Zevran teased, delighted when this comment prompted another blush from Cullen.

"In fairness, he did knock," Anders pointed out. "Just with his head."

"It's about the only time he uses his head," Artie muttered.

Cullen looked around the circle and shifted nervously, armour clanking dully. At least no one was flirting with him. No one was touching him except Anton. However absurd and obscene the conversation became, he wasn't an object and there was a wall behind him. But, it wasn't any of these people he was worried about. It wasn't people at all, really. "Never have I ever entered the Fade outside a dream."

"I assume that is aimed at me," Anders replied, accent thickening in self-defence. "And I assume you mean a natural dream caused by sleeping and not the other kind we both know about."

"Er, yes. The normal sleeping kind. Not the drinking strange potions kind, or whatever other kind there might be," Cullen agreed, and his eyes widened as every mage around him took a drink. He thought his eyes might fall out of his head in shock when Zevran and Fenris joined them. Only he, Anton, and Delilah remained. "That... is a lot of you."

"Strange potions," Cormac said, shrugging.

"It was just after I met you," Zevran said, with a glance at Cullen. "I did not think I was coming back."

Fenris offered no such explanation, his face grim and ears out at an angle. It was not one of his fonder memories.

"And may I thank you again for not bringing me along on that thing with Feynriel?" Anton said, gesturing at Artie and Fenris with the hand holding his glass. "Seeing the Fade in dreams is more than enough for me, and I'm glad that's something I don't have to worry about."

"'Thing with Feynriel'?" Cullen repeated, brows knitting. "Is this something I want to know?"

Anton laughed and patted Cullen's cheek, neglecting to answer. "Never have I ever... hm." He paused, either to consider or simply for dramatic effect. He looked over the faces around him before landing on Artie's and smirking. "Never have I ever been lusted after by a bull."

Red washed over Artie's face and down his neck. "You little shit."

With a shit-eating grin, Anton saluted his brother with his glass. Sullenly, Artemis took a long drink, giving Anton a rude gesture with his free hand.

"I do not understand," Zevran said, squinting at the Hawkes. "Is this a metaphor or do we mean an actual bull?"

"Moo," Anton supplied, with a shit-eating grin.

"If we are speaking of the actual animal," Anders cut in, "I do not suspect an ogre counts. No drink for me!" At the least, he could take the eyes off Artemis.

Delilah emptied her glass down her throat and held it out to Zevran for a refill. "That's got nothing to do with the question, but I need two more if I'm ever going to get that image out of my head, Warden Kasselmann."

"Maybe you should let me fill your head with better images." Anders's eyes darted to the side, the corner of his mouth tipping up.

"That's not the only thing he'll fill," Cormac drawled, eyebrows lifting pointedly.

"And on that note, didn't you need to speak with me, Magister Tilani?" Anton's smile seemed a little less easy as he noticed Fenris's grip on Artemis. "Perhaps we should go stand by the Orlesians. My brother's aim is terrible, and if he misses me, I don't think I'd mind if he took out that chevalier who was manhandling my husband earlier."

"Oh, I'll hit you if I want to hit you," Artemis warned. "I might take out half of Orlais, but it would be worth it."

"Please do not start an international incident at your sister's wedding, Amatus," Fenris said, managing to hide his amusement. "Though I am sure Thedas would not mind the loss of half of Orlais."

Using Cullen as a shield, Anton pulled away from the circle and his brother's glare, his husband and Maevaris in tow. "Suddenly I'm in the mood for Orlesian chocolate," Anton declared. "The dessert table's around here somewhere, and I'm afraid I left a tart behind the curtain..." He made a delighted sound when he found the right table.

Cullen cleared his throat awkwardly. "That's... he means the pastry."

"Thank you for clarifying," Maevaris said with a chuckle. "I was thinking he had an unusual nickname for you." Her face turned serious the next moment, and Anton turned to listen, popping a small chocolate into his mouth.

"So," said Anton, "what can you tell me about our colourful mutual friend? He's alive, at least, or so I've gathered."

"He was alive when he left Qarinus, a bit before I did," Maevaris confirmed, nodding as she examined the chocolates. "He and his lady-friend and that templar, worse for the wear, yes, but very much alive. I offered them a place to stay, but the templar wanted to return to Ferelden."

"A templar?" Cullen looked interested. "Varric didn't take any of my men."

"No, and it's a very long story. I gather the man was both a templar and a warden and also the heir to the throne of Ferelden. Certainly King Maric knew him." Maevaris paused. "Let me begin at the beginning -- or the beginning of where I became involved. And let us also take these chocolates and move away from the Orlesians, before we give them any ideas."

Anton batted a hand away from Cullen and then returned his attention to Maevaris. "A room with chocolates, a handsome man, a beautiful woman, an exciting tale of adventure, and no Orlesians? I think that's an excellent idea."

"I have a suite along the same hall as Lady Cousland's. The Orlesians will talk, you know. Accuse you of negotiating treaties with Tevinter," Maevaris warned, filling a beer glass with chocolate truffles.

"The Orlesians would do well to fear me turning my eye toward Orlais, right now, not away from it," Anton murmured, pouring stronger liqueur for all of them. "This templar you speak of, was this the Queen's friend Al?"

"Yes, and from what I gather, a friend of your cousin's." Leading them out of the hall, Maevaris threw Anton a smirk over her shoulder. "The Hero of Ferelden, not the cousin to whom I was acquainted."

Cullen shook his head in amazement. "At this point, I have to wonder who Solona doesn't know."

"That's what happens when you become a celebrity," Anton said. "And I remember him. He was in Kirkwall, leading a small group of Wardens the first time everything went to shit in an explosive way."

"Qunari invasion?" Cullen asked, to which Anton nodded. "Yes, that must have been a fun time to be visiting our city."

Compared to the reception, the hallway was quiet and empty, almost peaceful. Maevaris's heels clacked against the marble floors.

"He seems to have a way with explosive situations, that man." Maevaris chuckled. "We took a holiday in Seheron. Delightful, when everything wasn't on fire. I got to see my dear Thorold again. Almost stayed, too."

"Isn't Thorold--" Anton started, but Maevaris cut him off.

"Dead. But, I did so enjoy his company." She shook her head and sighed.

Cullen realised this was why she'd taken a drink, and he wondered how far into the Fade Tevinter had reached in recent years. The only real Tevinter texts available in Circles in the south were from before the most notable Tevinter incursion into the Fade. How far had they come since?

"But, Varric and I met at a lovely affair in Qarinus, and it turned out we had very similar interests in an inordinately successful member of the Magisterium with no lands and a family thought dead for centuries. I still think his family's been dead for centuries, and it's certainly dead, now. Terrible rumours all across Tevinter, but if you can't speak ill of the dead, who can you speak ill of?" Maevaris paused by a door, smirked and continued down the hall.

"Orlesians?" Anton suggested wryly, glancing around to make sure no Orlesians had heard that. "So, what happened with this magister?"

"That Warden, Alistair, happened," Maevaris answered. She paused in front of the door to her chambers, pulling out a key. "Turns out this magister had been causing trouble for him, so Alistair decided to return the favour. Did you know that King Maric was dragon-blooded? It's all rather complicated. Come in, have some chocolates and a drink, and I'll tell you the story as Varric told it, though possibly with less flair. My dear cousin can be terribly dramatic when the need strikes."

"I know," said Anton. "I've read his books."


	81. Chapter 81

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elissa tries to talk Nathaniel into terrible things. Anders flirts with beautiful women.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly nsfw to the first break.

Nathaniel squirmed, one hand still stroking his knob as he nuzzled Elissa's cheek. "Mmm, you know better," he teased her.

Elissa chuckled, panting. "I know better, but I don't really care. Is that terrible of me?"

"Completely," Nathaniel replied, wrapping his free arm around her. "And now I'm to get through the rest of this party like this?"

"Well, you could always take Sebastian up on his offer. Or who else is here? Isn't Serault here? I'd love to know if she managed to shake the legacy of the Shame." Elissa's hands idly wandered Nathaniel's body, tugging and teasing.

"Then ask her," Nathaniel grumbled.

"Oh, but she'd tell you a much better story in the dark, after a few glasses of cordial," Elissa argued, kneading at Nathaniel's chest hair. "And then after a few more glasses of cordial, you could tell it to me. You know I love your voice."

"Or I could stay here and tell you other things, still in my voice." Nathaniel kissed her neck, just under her ear. "We won't be missed at the party. Or, we will be, and the Orlesians will talk. How scandalous, disappearing with each other."

"Mm, except we didn't leave together," Elissa reminded him, twining her fingers in his hair. She half-expected the scrape of stubble to follow his kisses, but he had shaved earlier. She almost missed it. "Speaking of, is Jenet still missing, I wonder?"

"Why, do you think the Orlesians would talk about him and _me_ instead? I know you're curious about who he was with -- we both are -- but I'm not sleeping with him to find out."

"Too bad. You just put the loveliest of images in my mind."

"That is a hideous image," Nathaniel argued, shuddering at the thought. "What is the appeal? I'll never understand!" He paused. "Frankly I could ask the same about myself, but you've tried to explain that multiple times, over the years, and all I get out of it is that you have a love affair with my nose."

Elissa scoffed and draped her leg across his. "And somehow you had a months-long affair with a healer you still can't resist."

"He had a love affair with my nose, too." Nathaniel rolled his eyes. "And I absolutely can resist him. Did you see that beard? It's hideous. But, you never met him before breakfast. I don't know. We were younger, then. You were dead at the time. He was a Warden, I was a Warden. I could drink until he was pretty. It didn't mean anything but that we'd gotten kicked out of every brothel in Amaranthine -- the arldom, not the city. Had to do something with it."

"You'll do that, but you argue with me about Lady Amell?" Elissa teased, with a sharp pinch that made Nathaniel squeak.

"What do I need with her, when I have you? She's not as pretty, and she's younger than Sebastian, even!" Nathaniel huffed and dove into a long, heated kiss, trying to change the subject.

Elissa allowed him the kiss, her fingers a gentle caress at the back of his head. She kept the pace lazy and slow, however, and broke away after a moment. "Ah, but she _is_ pretty and cunning and dangerous, and I can tell she's brimming with secrets. It is, of course, foolish to compare her to my charms," she teased, "as her charms are so very different from mine."

"Pretty, cunning, dangerous, and full of secrets?" Nathaniel traced her lips with his thumb. "On the contrary. I'd say that sounds exactly like you."

"All the more incentive for you." Elissa's eyes sparkled up at Nathaniel, in amusement but also with affection, and for a moment Nathaniel forgot to breathe, grateful now, again, always, that she hadn't died after all.

"I've heard stories about her with women too, you know," Nathaniel said. "You could always sneak your way into her bed yourself."

"Ah, but Sebastian isn't going to be angry about you, if he finds out. I'm the proxy to a Fereldan teyrn. Knowing Sebastian, that would start a war." Elissa nipped at Nathaniel's thumb. "You're a Warden. You're not allowed to do politics."

"Tell him that," Nathaniel muttered. "And how have you not started a war with Orlais, then?"

"The Orlesians expect it. It's all part of the Game." Elissa's hand wandered, and Nathaniel's breath caught. "Can you spare one more, before I send you back out among all those lovely ladies with terrible secrets?"

* * *

  
Maevaris had left with Anton and Cullen, but she returned alone, lighter a few secrets and a glassful of chocolates. The drinking game had, it seemed, mostly dispersed, leaving a few simply drinking without the pretence of a game. She revisited the dessert table and considered her choices of potential dance partners. That Ander Warden had been promising, but it seemed Delilah had gotten there first.

"I meant to ask," said Delilah as Anders steered her around the dance floor. "The, uh, flowers in your beard. Did you pick those on purpose, or do you just like the blossoms? I'm... not sure if they have the same meaning in the Anderfels as they do here."

"I learned my flowers from a very handsome Fereldan. Several very handsome Fereldans." Anders swung Delilah into a deep dip, leaning over her with a smile. "I understand the arrangement to be something of an invitation, which is definitely intended. There are so many beautiful people here. It would be a dreadful shame if I did not at least make the choice available." He smiled wickedly and stood them both back up.

Something between a laugh and a sound of surprise leapt out between Delilah's lips. "An offer? To everyone here?"

"Well, most of them. I might just offensively decline the Orlesians." Anders chuckled. "They expect too much. They never expect 'no'."

"Have any Orlesians propositioned you tonight?" Delilah asked, fighting back a smile. "I should like to see this." She followed the steps as easily as breathing, and she was pleasantly surprised by how well Warden Kasselmann kept pace.

"Not yet, but the night is young, and Anton has pried Cullen away from their wandering fingers. It is only a matter of time."

"Is Cullen that popular with the Orlesians?" Delilah asked. She paused to let Anders spin her before continuing. "Of course he is. What's more appealing than a Fereldan man?"

"An Ander," Anders reminded her.

"Is that why Orlais invaded, all those years ago, do you think?" Delilah teased. "To get their dainty, gloved hands all over the mountain-tall men of the Anderfels?"

"I live there. I cannot think of any other thing they would have been chasing but tail. Whether ours or their own, I do not know." Anders laughed and drew her closer for the next few steps. "And you? Are you interested in a bit of mountain-climbing? Is that a Howe trait? I understand your brother had some interest."

"Did he really?" Delilah's eyes rounded, as she deftly dodged the question. "I heard the rumours, but..."

"Ah, you were not present at breakfast, when he took me for an Ander he'd appreciated in the buff." Anders grinned, wondering how long it would take Delilah to recognise him. He half expected it wouldn't come out until Nathaniel's next letter home.

Delilah nearly fumbled a step but hid it with grace. "Forgive me, but I had not thought you were his... type."

"Is it the beard?" Anders asked, eyes glittering mischievously. "It has had a mixed reception, but at least it is a handy place to display my flowers."

"The beard is part of it," Delilah admitted tactfully if vaguely. "And personally, I like it. The beard, I mean. It seems to suit you, and I wonder what else you could hide in there besides flowers."

Anders's laughter rustled the flowers in his beard. "Not my sense of shame, I can tell you that. I lost that long ago."

"So I see," Delilah teased. Their steps slowed in time to the music, and Anders held her close as the song faded to a stop.

"So..." Anders's eyebrows raised, inquisitively, as he held Delilah against him. "Are you interested in climbing the mountain, or should I go tempt the Orlesians? I would very much like to see more of the Howe method of mountain climbing."

Delilah chuckled and reached up to tug on Anders's beard. "I don't think I'll be climbing any mountains, tonight. But, if I find myself in the Anderfels, I'll be sure to keep an eye out for you." She pulled his beard a bit harder, dragging him down to a quick kiss, just the faintest touch more than friendly.

"I will be looking forward to the day!" Anders declared, with a jaunty smile. He watched Delilah gracefully dodge several couples, as she crossed the dance floor, toward where Bethany and Sebastian stood chatting with the Marquis of Serault. After a glance around the room, he made his way to where Maevaris stood, watching him from beside a table heaped with desserts.

"And you, Magister? I see your eye lingering. Have you decided to test yourself on the mountains of the Anderfels, as your ancestors did centuries past, or were you hoping to avail yourself of Teyrn Howe? Perhaps you are more her type." Anders looked after Delilah, again, wistfully.

Maevaris hummed, considering him out of the corner of her eye while she looked over the desserts, pretending to be deep in thought over her next selection. "Perhaps, but I'm afraid she's not mine, lovely though she is. As for the mountain..." She plucked up a chocolate and turned to face him directly. "Is it true what they say about Warden stamina?"

Anders reached past her for a chocolate himself, standing closer than strictly necessary. "The rumours don't exaggerate as much as you'd think."

"Oh my. I can't decide if that's titillating or worrisome." Maevaris smirked at him over her wine glass.

"Perhaps a little bit of both?"

"If it's only a little then it's a grand exaggeration," Maevaris sipped her wine and watched one of Bethany's brothers dance with that Antivan merchant, if it could be called dancing. It looked like they were both trying to lead and tripping over each other's feet. A few feet away, Fenris danced with the Baroness of the Kirkwall Alienage, and they seemed to have a much better idea of what they were doing. She wondered if that was left over from Danarius, but why would he need a bodyguard who could dance?

"You could always ask Lord Hawke for an opinion," Anders suggested, smiling smugly. "The rumours about his harem are apparently entirely true. His experience and expertise in the subject could give you a well-measured judgement of my abilities and my stamina." He didn't mention, of course, that his stamina was further affected by being possessed by a spirit who refused to understand what any of this was about or why they were making advances on nearly anyone who got close enough to try.

"So, I should ask the Viscount of Kirkwall's slutty little brother to give me an overview of your sexual prowess?" Maevaris cocked her head and watched the brother in question stagger across the dance floor.

"Older brother," Anders corrected. "Or you could ask the Antivan, but his judgement is suspect."

"Both of them, hm?" Maevaris said with a twitch of one eyebrow. "Clearly I'm not having nearly as much fun on this trip as everyone else is."

"But we could very easily change that," Anders said with a wolfish smile. He proffered his hand, palm up, and wiggled his fingers. "Care to dance, and show these Orlesians how it's done?"

"Is this how you mean to seduce me?" Maevaris said with a look and a smile that said she did not mind. She set down her wine glass and took Anders's hand, allowing him to lead her onto the dance floor.

"Only if it works!" Anders promised.


	82. Chapter 82

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dancing, stumbling, and a small matter of paint. Gamlen starts a fight and Charade means to finish it.

Artemis accidentally stepped on Cormac's foot for the fifth time, and he tucked his face against Cormac's shoulder to stifle a laugh. "I can't even blame the drink on this hopeless showing," he teased. "Let me apologise again to your toes."

"You can lavish your affection and apologies on them, when we get back to the suite, later." Cormac suddenly realised something. "You know why this isn't working? You're not letting me move you. You can't be moved unless you allow it or initiate it, and you're not allowing it." He offered a lopsided smile. "Is it because everyone's here? We don't have this problem when we're alone. Just move with me. Keep your feet touching mine, and I'll push them the right way."

Merrill watched them untangle themselves again and chuckled against Fenris's shoulder. "Are they both really that bad at this? I can't imagine. Aren't they really nobles? Isn't that the kind of thing you're supposed to know?"

"Artemis can dance," Fenris assured her. "Just not with that oaf."

"Oh, so we can blame Mack?" Merrill asked, almost saying the wrong name and catching herself at the right moment. "Maybe they dance differently in Antiva?"

"Perhaps, but they do not dance like oafs." Fenris watched the crowd over Merrill's shoulder as they moved. It wasn't quite like swordplay, but his body remembered the steps whether he was focusing on them or not. "Speaking of oafs, yours is watching us rather balefully." Which was good. Better glaring at them than at the fumbling brothers. Carver was, at least, wise enough not to try to punch Fenris.

"I do not have an oaf," Merrill protested. "I have a templar sworder, and he does know how to dance."

"I do not need to know of your oaf's swording or dancing or any combination thereof," Fenris said, nose crinkling.

Merrill squinted at Fenris and then changed the subject, as they turned. "Oh, look! There's Magister Tilani and A-- that Ander warden! She's very pretty. I didn't know magisters could be pretty. The stories make them all into monsters."

"They _are_ all monsters," Fenris grumbled, turning them again so he could see the woman. "This one just happens to be the monster helping us, for now." He thought uncomfortably of Maevaris's earlier question -- was he still Fenris, now that he could be someone else. And he thought he remembered Athanir Tilani having a son, not a daughter, but the fact that he remembered the former Magister Tilani at all was somewhat unexpected. Being someone else -- he wondered, then, if she truly did see the appeal, and thought she might. Still, he was what he was made to be -- a wolf -- and that was something he could take a vicious joy in. _That_ was something she might not understand, and he meant to keep it that way, just in case.

"Well, she's a very pretty monster," Merrill insisted, dipping back over Fenris's arm to get another look. "Look at her arms and her hips. She almost looks like an elf with no ears. I wonder how that goes over in the Senate."

"I do not know," Fenris admitted, and on one level, he was glad he was no longer familiar with the machinations of the magisterium. He watched Maevaris for a moment, wondered what he would think of her if he hadn't known her to be a magister. "I suppose she is not terrible to look at. Certainly an improvement over the Mountain Savage of the Anderfels dancing with her."

Merrill fought to keep her form through a giggle. "I think he is a handsome mountain savage! Even with the beard."

"I have yet to find anyone who approves of that beard, himself included." Fenris caught Carver's eye and met his scowl with a smirk.

A pair of Hawkes swooped into their trajectory, and Fenris compensated, spinning them both to the side and out of the path of collision.

"Sorry!" Artemis said in a loud whisper.

Cormac stifled a laugh against Artemis's neck.

Across the room, Gamlen was starting to raise his voice at Charade. "And what if he does to you what I did to your mother?" he demanded, and Fenris and Carver both looked up, Carver's attention completely distracted from anything happening on the dance floor, as he made his way across the floor.

"And what if he does, _Gamlen_?" Charade wasn't having it. "What if he does turn out to be a gambler and a wastrel? I've got friends, money, and clinics across Kirkwall. I'm not going to be alone, like mum was."

"Public..." Carver pointed out, from over Gamlen's shoulder. "Orlesians. I think the Orlesians have done enough to our family, without the help."

Cormac watched from over Artie's shoulder.  "There are five of us here, but I only count four..." He looked over his shoulder and then around Artie's other side. "Anton's gone, and so's Cullen. I hope they're together and I hope it's not serious. And I really hope it's no more serious than _that_."

"On the one hand," Artemis replied, "they're probably finishing the, uh, closet activities Carver interrupted --"

"Alcove activities," Fenris corrected. "A closet implies there had been a door."

"Right. Alcove activities. On the other hand, this _is_ a Hawke wedding, and now I'm nervous on principle."

Artemis twisted to catch sight of Gamlen and found Carver ushering him and Charade out into the hall. Gamlen shot a glare at a confused and alarmed Jenet before he left the room.

"I am sure your brothers have their respective problems well in hand," Fenris said. He let go of Merrill with a polite tip of his head and tapped his husband's arm. "For the safety of the room at large, perhaps I should cut in? As amusing as it is to watch the looks of alarms on the Orlesians' faces, Bethany might kill you if you bowl into anyone."

"Asking to dance with Mack?" Artie teased. "That's so sweet of you."

"What? No!" Fenris's right ear twitched at an angle.

"Ah, the lovely baroness, then?" Cormac smiled widely, ever so glad Carver had left the room. "Am I to keep you away from Orlesian hands until that slab of meat you have for a husband returns?"

"Or you could introduce me to the Orlesians," Merrill suggested, blinking innocently up at Cormac, as they stepped aside to leave Fenris and Artemis room. "I saw how they upset Cullen. That wasn't very nice of them."

"Not very nice at all, but they are Orlesian. It is what they do best." Cormac shrugged, lifting Merrill off the ground to spin past another couple.

"I have heard there are many statues to protect against the Dread Wolf, in Orlais. I wonder if those could be removed, somehow..." Merrill still smiled, glancing around the room at the chevaliers and courtiers. Her eyes drifted back to Cormac's face. "Oh! Your cheek is red! Did you scrape it?"

Cormac's eyes met Merrill's and he understood at once. "Oh, I must have done something drunk and foolish." He shook his head. "But, such is Antivan charm, no? Come, help me over to Magister Tilani. Such a beautiful woman must have excellent magics for the skin." Or just very good makeup, he recalled, thinking of how she'd cleaned up his work, earlier. He must've wiped it off on Artemis's collar.

With some careful manoeuvring -- during which time Merrill concluded that Cormac did not, in fact, dance like an oaf -- the flow of the dance floor had them nearly brushing shoulders with Anders and Maevaris.

Anders glanced at them. "Did you trade in your pretty Hawke for a pretty elf?" he teased, but his grin froze when he caught a closer look at Cormac. There was a red line high on his cheek, peeking out from the make-up, and he hoped none of the Orlesians saw. Not that they could probably tell without getting a closer look, but still.

"The pretty Hawke has a sharp beak," Cormac sighed. "I have come to plead for some small assistance in repairing my charming looks. I would hate to inflict this gash on too many of the eyes around us, however minor it seems, and who better to beg for assistance with harm to my second-best feature than the most beautiful and magical woman in the room?"

"Your second-best feature?" Maevaris asked, arms still holding Anders for the dance.

"His best feature isn't visible from this angle," Anders replied, "but the Maker hand-crafted it to delight and amaze."

Maevaris looked Cormac up and down. "I have heard many men make that claim, and not a one who claimed it has lived up to it."

"But he's not making the claim for himself. Your beardy friend is doing it for him," Merrill pointed out.

"And it's probably not the part you're thinking of, either," Anders threw in.

"Please, my lady, my face?" Cormac didn't have to try hard to look distressed, his eyes darting toward Sebastian.

"Watch me," Maevaris said to Merrill, with a wink, and then pressed her lips to the curve of Cormac's cheek, leaving an unmistakeable red print that completely covered the bared streak.

"Oh, so _he_ gets a kiss?" Anders said with mock hurt. That had been good thinking on her part, and Sebastian barely spared them a glance. "Even though I'm the one dancing with you? You wound me, my lady!"

"Yes, but he was the one wound _ed_ , and I thought I might kiss it better." Maevaris was all smiles and charm as she broke away from Anders to slip her arm through Cormac's. "Baroness, perhaps you could console the poor Warden while I see to your dance partner?"

"I'm afraid I'm beyond consolation," Anders said even as he held out a hand to Merrill, "but you are welcome to try, Baroness."

Maevaris steered Cormac off the dance floor while Merrill giggled and insisted she wasn't going to kiss Anders either.


	83. Chapter 83

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Anton get up to some swording in a bed that isn't theirs. The bed's proper owner is less than entirely enthused with this discovery.

Nathaniel had no regrets. Well, no, he had some regrets, but mostly that he needed to show his face at the party again, before Sebastian noticed he'd been missing too long. And in order to do that, he needed trousers that weren't going to need to be washed before he showed them in public again. He supposed he could regret what happened to them, but he couldn't find it in himself to do it. He was feeling much better about this entire appalling event, aside from the part where he'd have to face the rest of it in a longer jacket and different trousers than he'd been wearing. And just to keep his rumpled state out of the public eye, he ducked into a servants' hall, concealed behind a tapestry, as Elissa straightened one of the flowers on her gown and let herself out into the public hallway.

As he counted the turns and studied the medallions set beside the well-oiled doors, he wondered whose room that had been, and how appallingly upset they'd be when they found the condition he and Elissa had left it in. And that just reminded him of all those nights back home, with Anders, which was doing nothing for the problem he was having. His jacket hung open and his shirt was tied around his waist, where it hid both the fact that his trousers were stained and that they were buttoned crookedly -- he'd spent his time helping Elissa dress, since her clothes could actually go back to the party as they were.

He touched the medallion beside one door and gave it a moment's thought. This was his room, he thought. Well, it was this or the next one down, and no one would be back here at this point. Except, when he nudged the door open, that was not the sound of an empty room or, more specifically, of an empty bed. Those were very familiar sounds, in fact, and it left Nathaniel with a strange, out of body sense, as though he were looking in on himself from a few minutes ago.

"Oh, Cullen!" one of the bed's occupants groaned, and between the voice and the dark hair, Nathaniel was able to put a name and a title to the man being ploughed into the mattress.

And, really, this was more than Nathaniel needed to know, hear, or see about the Viscount of Kirkwall's married life, but, bed in use or not, Nathaniel was still in need of trousers. Preferably trousers from his room, which, as he peeked around, he ascertained that this was. Damn. Well, he supposed he deserved that.

The Knight-Commander said something Nathaniel clearly misheard, because there was no way a grown man had just used the word 'manhood', and Nathaniel wondered just how badly he needed those pants anyway.

The viscount arched, writhing under his husband's intent pounding, both wrists pinned to the bed above his head. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the tapestries flutter. Just a breeze, maybe, but those things usually weighed half a sackweight. He kept an eye on it, pleading melodramatically with Cullen, to keep his eyes off whatever it was. He was here to make Cullen feel less concerned about being manhandled by Orlesians, not more concerned about tapestries and ghosts.

Nathaniel studied the room from the edges of the tapestry, barely moving as he considered the figures on the bed and how much that bureau drawer would squeak. He'd become relatively stealthy, working with the Wardens, but that was forests and ruins, not suites in the royal palace of Starkhaven. Still, he thought he could do it, even dressed as he was, in blue and white. He dropped the shirt in the corridor and closed two buttons on the jacket, to keep it from flapping. The next time the bed started thumping against the wall, it would be up the wardrobe. No one ever looked up, and the noise would disappear into the moaning and thumping. With a faint sense of regret, he slid his boots off and left them. He'd land softer, barefoot, when he came down, shielded by the bed curtain, beside the bureau.

"Oh, guardsman! Have mercy on this wicked bandit of asses!" the viscount cried out, tipping his hips up, and the knight-commander took the bait, ramming in hard enough that the bed scuffed against the floor. Nathaniel tried to remember the last time he'd been fucked that hard, and couldn't come up with anything in the preceding fifteen years, but he might've been drunk for it.

Over Cullen's shoulder, Anton watched the moving shadow on the wall. That had been more than a ghost rustling that tapestry, and even as he writhed enticingly under his husband, Anton wondered how quickly he could pull his wrists free to pick up the knife he'd slipped under the pillow.

"Oh! Such cruel mercy you show me, guardsman!" Anton panted and gasped, twisting his wrists in a half-hearted attempt to pull them free, all while watching the shadow and racing through the implications.

Surely LaChapelle wouldn't send anyone to kill him _here_... He should still be dead by her accounts, but if not, an assassination in Starkhaven? The blame would fall to Sebastian, and then there would be an international incident. Plus he'd be dead, which was less than ideal on its own.

Nathaniel eased himself down the side of the armoire that couldn't be seen from the bed. The curtains were summerweight, so if the lamps had been lit, on this side of the room, he'd be obvious, but the only lights lit were the ones by the door. He eased the bureau drawer open, but it still caught and squeaked -- in perfect time to the bed. He held his breath for a moment, but the squeaking of the bed continued.

That one squeak hadn't been the bed, Anton knew. It sounded like a drawer. A thief, perhaps, and not an assassin? That was a welcome relief, although surely little relief to whoever belonged in this room.

"Tell me," Cullen panted, "do you like the feel of this fine sword?"

Nathaniel was done. He had what he needed, and he only needed to get out of the room, but he was beyond done listening to what was going on in his bed. He would change the sheets, tonight. Maybe sleep on the floor, by the fire. He tried to judge what could be seen from the bed, and then decided it didn't matter. It was his room, and these were his trousers, and straight to the void with what anyone who didn't belong in his bed might think. All the same, he moved quickly, bounding the three steps from the curtained corner of the bed to the other side of the tapestry.

"Your sword is fine indeed!" Anton said with a sigh that was as much relief as pleasure. "You wield it well, but I prefer it sheathed." Anton twisted his hips as he spoke, wringing another pleased sound out of Cullen. He watched the tapestry flutter again, and then the shadows were still. 

A thief. A trouser-thief, it seemed, but still not an assassin. Anton was getting paranoid in his old age, but he supposed assassination attempts tended to have that effect.

"What do you keep looking at?" Cullen asked in Anton's ear, and it occurred to Anton that he might have been less subtle than he had thought. Or Cullen was much too observant, which would cast aspersions on Anton's talents.

"The pants thief who just disappeared through the servants' passage," Anton answered, and only then did the bed's creaking stop. 

"The _what_?" 

"Someone just snuck in, nicked a pair of trousers, and left," Anton explained, shrugging as best he could with his arms pinned. "But, I think there was some naked bed wrestling going on."

"A thief? Someone was in here? Someone saw us?" Cullen was already flushed with exertion, but a brighter red splashed across his cheeks and spread across his chest.

"Relax, love." Anton rubbed Cullen's thigh with his heel. "Much more interested in what was in the bureau than in either of us. I almost feel slighted. I'm glad it wasn't an assassin, though. I'd have hated to leave blood on the rug in someone else's room. Not to mention a corpse."

"Assassins!" Cullen forgot his initial embarrassment in the horror of that idea. "Why would there be assassins?"

"Oh, it's nothing serious. We're both highly placed people. Someone would benefit from our deaths. Someone always benefits from the deaths of the people in charge." Anton rubbed his cheek against Cullen's arm and considered whether to tell him the next part. "And I'll be removing Lady LaChapelle from the council, when we get home. That's what the meeting was about, before I joined you here. She --" He laughed. "Would you believe she tried to have me killed?! Ridiculous. I'll take care of it when we get back."

Cullen stared down at his husband, the colour leaving his face as quickly as it had come. "What do you mean she--? You're telling me this _now_?"

"Why would I bring it up? We're at a wedding, and she clearly didn't succeed. Oh, that reminds me! Lady LaChapelle thinks I'm dead, so expect an outpouring of condolences when we get back."

Cullen closed his eyes and sucked in a breath. He sat back on his heels, still inside Anton but taking his weight off Anton's wrists. "First," he said, holding up one finger, "if someone tries to kill you, that's something I should know about."

Anton laughed, reaching up to stroke Cullen's arm. "Cullen, my dear, if I did that, I would never leave your office."

"This has happened before?" Cullen demanded, eyes alight with horror.

"This was a bit more elaborate than usual, but have you forgotten I own a gaming house on the docks? Someone gets drunk and tries to stab me about every third Makersday. And none of them have succeeded either." Anton laughed and tugged at Cullen, rolling his hips.

"Yes, I expect they haven't. I know what a spirit looks like, and you're not nearly blue and glowing enough." Cullen huffed, but reflexively rocked his hips. "Tonight, I want Anders to have a look at you and tell me you're all right."

"The Maker only knows where Anders is, Commander," Anton purred, shooting a pointed glance at the tapestry. "I'm afraid you'll have to find another healer. But, first, weren't you going to find the perfect sheath for that sword, speaking of stabbing me?"

"Really?" Cullen sighed. "You just tell me about an assassination attempt and thought for a moment that there was another assassin in this room, and you want me to metaphorically 'stab' you?"

"If I'm going to die, it might as well be by your sword." Anton waggled his eyebrows, but Cullen just stared back at him flatly. "What? Do you not want to stab me metaphorically, brave Ser Cullen?" Anton smoothed a hand up Cullen's chest, squeezing in advantageous places.

"Please stop saying 'stab'," Cullen groaned.

"No stabbing? Well, I did suggest sheathing. Is that better?"

"I think you're missing the point I was trying to make," Cullen said, his hips giving a shallow thrust.

"Mm, on the contrary, I know exactly where your point is, and I'm enjoying it quite thoroughly."

"If I finish delivering this enjoyable point, can we get back to the thoroughly unenjoyable point that you were nearly murdered by a member of the Noble Council?" Cullen pinched one of Anton's nipples sharply.

Anton twisted and swore. "I'll hear arguments for it," he weaselled, crossing his ankles against Cullen's tailbone and pulling him down.

"Arguments for it," Cullen huffed, rolling his hips. "We are going to talk about this, before we get home. You need a plan."

"I have a plan. I also have Bran." Anton stretched up, shoulders tugging back, to press a kiss to Cullen's chin. "No one is getting away with this."


	84. Chapter 84

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver is a very bad judge of elven ages. Nathaniel returns to the party and his own general crankiness amid mild scandal and a few smart remarks.

Carver was in need of a drink, a strong drink. Uncle Gamlen often had that effect, but he was in rare form today. Carver had, at least, left Gamlen and Charade talking instead of shouting, which was no small feat. He would consider this a victory.

He found drinks and Merrill in the same place -- another small victory -- and he squeezed her arm as he reached behind her to grab a fresh glass of wine. 

"They were black and lacy," Artemis was telling her. "I swear I thought they were Kalli's!"

Merrill had a hand over her mouth to stifle her giggles. "I think I was there when he bought those," she said. "Or... no, not the black ones. The red ones. Now those were quite lovely! I wonder if he still has those."

"What are we talking about?" Carver asked, pressing a kiss to the side of Merrill's head. "I hope it's not Fenris in black lace."

Merrill laughed. "He would look good in it, but no. Theron actually wears it." She smiled up at Carver and took the drink from his hand. "I was just saying that we went into Amaranthine to trade, after Artemis left us, that first time, and Theron bought the absolutely laciest pair of red knickers! Of course, he's got less of a sword and more of a dagger, so it fits."

Carver choked on his wine. "How would you know that?"

"Oh, please, Carver, do you think being elves means we weren't young and stupid?" Merrill laughed and winked at Artemis. "But, like Theron, I think I like shemlen better. Especially shemlen with big swords."

"Wait, no, that's... I was... six? Maybe seven? You couldn't have been more than ten, when we left Amaranthine!" Carver looked terribly confused.

Artemis and Merrill exchanged a look, trying and failing to stifle a laugh. "Ten?" Artie echoed. "I can assure you she was older than ten when I met her, never mind when we left!"

Carver stared at his brother, not quite comprehending. "Still, she... she had to have been too young to..." He trailed off at the amused and pitying glint in Merrill's eye.

"Carver, how old do you think I am?" she asked over a sip of wine.

A dangerous question. "I don't know," Carver floundered. "Anton's age, maybe?"

Another exchange of glances with poorly stifled laughter, and Carver was getting tired of not getting the joke.

"Older than Anton?" Carver hedged.

Merrill nodded, and Artemis pointed up.

"What...?" Carver squinted at his brother. "How much older?"

"Old enough to desecrate an aravel with Theron before I did," Artie cheerfully answered.

"Wrong brother," Merrill said, smiling at Carver over the top of her glass.

"Okay, Artie's age, that's not so bad." Carver nodded to himself.

Merrill stood on her toes and whispered something in Artemis's ear. When he answered she nodded and turned back to Carver. "A little older than Cormac. I think that's right. We keep days differently."

"You... what?" Carver blinked. "That's... No, really? But, you look younger than me! I mean, I know you're an elf, but... really?"

Merrill shrugged. "You're very handsome, and you're the best sworder in Kirkwall. With all the yelling Cormac did about Anders and Bethany, I was always surprised he didn't say anything to me. Maybe he didn't notice, either, but I think he did. He wasn't very good at judging ages, but we were old enough he could only have thought we were older."

"I really should have guessed." Carver shook his head and eyed Merrill. "I thought you were just smarter because you were Dalish."

"No, that's still true." Merrill laughed. "But, I do have a few more years of study."

"Weren't you the one complaining about the age difference between Bethany and Sebastian?" Artemis asked sweetly. "I suspect this age difference is bigger, unless Sebastian is older than he looks."

Carver gave Artie a dark look. "How was I supposed to know? Does she _look_ older than Cormac?"

"Not in this light, no. Nor in any light, really. She's an elf, Carver."

"I noticed," Carver drawled.

"Yet you didn't notice her age, so..."

"Shut up, please," Carver sighed. He took an impolitely large sip of wine. "It's not my fault Theron looks twelve in comparison."

"He does not!" Artie protested while Merrill laughed.

"So does Fenris," Carver went on. "I mean, they're elves! They don't get beards!"

"I wouldn't have had a beard either way, Carver," Merrill pointed out, squeezing Carver closer to her side, with one arm. "Does it matter?"

"No!" Carver whined, loudly. "It's just ... confusing. Everything's the same, but it's ... different. Not bad, just... things make a different kind of sense, now. It doesn't matter. I'd still have yelled at mum." He paused. "You're really older than Cormac?"

Merrill nodded. "I think so, yes. I might be wrong, but I'm probably not."

* * *

  
Zevran wondered if he should point out that Anders had bits of cheese in his beard. Maybe later, he decided, after the man had managed to walk away from the cheese dip, instead of taking a step away only to creep back for another bite.

"Have you tried this?" Anders asked as he chewed. "It's really good. I can't stop putting it in my mouth."

Zevran couldn't resist. "You know what else you had that problem with?" he asked with a suggestive smile.

This time, Anders took the time to chew and swallow before responding, brows knit as though he were seriously thinking it over. "Justice still says no," he finally answered, nudging the cheese dip towards Zevran.

"Justice doesn't know what he's missing," Zevran replied, though since they shared a body, a brain, he probably _did_ know. Zevran soothed his bruised ego with some cheese, nudging Anders when he saw the door to the main hall open. 

Nate reappeared, pausing in the door to check his clothing again before stepping in as though he had never left.

"Is that an Orlesian fashion?" Zevran asked. "Leaving for a change of clothes between dances?" His smile was all teeth.

"It's a fashion for those who spend too much time dealing with Orlesians," Nathaniel drawled, handing Anders a small napkin from the end of the table. "Did he tell you that you've got cheese in your beard? I'm not sure if that's to go with the flowers, but in case it's not..."

Anders shot a dirty look at Zevran. "What? You could've mentioned it!" His accent faltered, and he sounded almost like himself for a moment, before he caught it and turned his attention to Nathaniel. "I do not see Lady Cousland, and you are wearing fresh trousers." The corner of his mouth tipped up as he picked the cheese out of his beard and re-adjusted the flowers.

"And if you follow that to its likely conclusion, you'd be correct. I needed a bit of time away from all the Orlesian posturing." Nathaniel took a bit of deep-fried something and scooped up some dip with it. "This is really good. I wonder where we got it. I should ask Jenet."

"I think Jenet's still hiding from the former Lord Amell," Zevran noted, glancing around the room. "Do you think it's true about the girl, or do you think she said it to make her father angry?"

Nathaniel looked back and forth between Zevran and Anders. "Do I think what's true? What's the question?"

"Ah, see the drama you miss when you're off changing trousers?" Zevran teased. "The handsome young ambassador disappeared, only to reappear later with the girl, looking slightly used. I am sure you understand what conclusions the Orlesians have come to."

"Not just the Orlesians," Anders added, tucking his chin in and trying to get a better look at his beard, giving it another wipe down just in case.

"The Amell girl? Really? What's her name... Charade?" Nate looked around, trying to catch sight of her. "I suppose that solves that mystery. Elissa was driving me crazy, trying to guess who he was with."

"Oh?" Zevran asked, eyebrows arching up. "Did you catch sight of something scandalous?"

"You look far too interested in this," Nathaniel said, eyes narrowing. "And no, I didn't _see_ anything, thank the Maker. But Jenet was locked in my office and acting shifty. He seemed content to stay locked in there. He better have put everything back where he found it."

"You don't want the ambassador leaving stains on your treaties," Anders quipped.

"I don't really handle treaties," Nathaniel sighed, helping himself to more cheese dip. "I wish I did. It would probably be easier. Jenet and I are teaching _Sebastian_ how to handle treaties. And everything else about how to be a nobleman and who not to piss off. Jenet's also hiring household staff, because I just don't have the patience, and Sebastian in an extremely sensible act, fired almost everyone, when he came back. Between Goren and the Harimanns and his parents being killed, I can't blame him. It probably was the safest choice, but he's been slow to replace them. We barely have the staff for this wedding."

"You don't have the staff for this wedding," Anders pointed out, with his mouth full. "Jenet met us when we arrived. I thought it was odd that the ambassador should be serving as a valet."

"He's been run ragged with this whole thing. I have, too, but he's been on the wedding end of it. I've just been dealing with the politics." Nathaniel shook his head. "But, no, I'd rather he not leave stains on my desk. I'd also rather, for his sake, that he not bed my fiancée."

"You? Jealous?" Zevran feigned shock, clapping a hand to his chest.

"Hardly," Nathaniel scoffed. "I like him. I'd rather she not use him like she does the rest of the nobility. She's a genuinely wonderful woman, and I wish that she were teyrna, because she has the wit and strength for it, in a way her brother lacks. But, I prefer that she not use that wit and strength on people I like."

"Better she use her special talents on you, yes?" Zevran said with a wink. "It seems you have protected Jenet from Lady Cousland, but I wonder if he will need protection from Lady Charade?" He indicated Jenet on the far side of the room, surreptitiously trying to watch Charade at a safe distance.


	85. Chapter 85

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathaniel has many regrets, one of which is the fact that he's standing in the midst of a group that has seen nearly all of his most embarrassing moments. Anders continues to decline Zevran's offers.

"Ah, I should have known I'd find the Wardens loitering by the food," Elissa said from behind them, making Anders jump.

"The cheese dip is amazing," Anders said, consonants softened by the food in his mouth.

Nathaniel grimaced. "You've got cheese on your beard again."

" _Dammit_." Anders attacked his beard with his napkin with renewed vigour.

Elissa chuckled, slipping an arm around Nathaniel's waist. She was a comforting warmth at his side.

"Are you gentlemen starting scandalous rumours, over here, or just spreading them?" she asked, reaching out with her free hand to try the cheese dip.

"Oh, I don't think Lord Howe would let us start scandalous rumours," Zevran teased, nibbling on a rice ball. "He's just not that way. Not an ounce of scandal in the man, until he gets very very drunk."

"Shut up, Zevran," Nathaniel huffed.

"Does the lady not know what you are like when you are drinking?" Anders asked, eyes twinkling.

"What can I say, I've been drinking a lot less since she's stopped being dead," Nathaniel shot back.

"You were there when he was arrested weren't you?" Zevran asked, looking up at Anders.

"Yes, but I was already locked up for the night. I did not see it happen." Anders shook his head and shrugged. "But, there were many things I was there for."

"Many things the entire keep was there for, if only in sound." Zevran laughed and licked a grain of rice off his lip.

"Another one of dear Nathaniel's dirty secrets?" Elissa asked, the corner of her mouth lifting in clear amusement. "Tell me everything. He's good, isn't he?"

"He has his talents," Anders said with a matching smirk. "And everything? I don't know if there's enough time in the day for that."

"Or enough alcohol," Nathaniel muttered, looking around him for exit options.

"Oh, is it going to be one of those nights?" Zevran asked, his grin disconcertingly wide. "Then the Lady Cousland could see just how you are when you're drunk."

Nathaniel levelled a murderous look at Zevran. "Shut up and eat some more cheese."

"Yes, everything," Elissa said as though Nathaniel and Zevran had said nothing. "I'm here for the week, not just the wedding. Is that enough time?"

"No," Nathaniel cut in. "No, it isn't." He glared at Anders. "And no, you're not."

"What exactly is the harm?" Anders shrugged. "She already knows much of what I will tell her, yes? As she says, you are _very good_. Clearly, we both know it."

"And he gives great head, doesn't he?" Elissa elbowed Anders and winked.

"I wouldn't know." Anders shrugged again, eyes still on Nathaniel.

Elissa looked scandalised. "You wouldn't know? Did he never--? All those months and--?" She huffed. " _Nathaniel_! Really?"

"It's different. I didn't. I didn't want--" Nathaniel shifted uncomfortably and snatched a rice ball, stuffing most of it into his mouth. "It wasn't like that. We were Wardens. I can't tell you what they did to us, but I didn't want to swallow--"

"That's actually clean," Anders pointed out. "I checked."

"I know," Nathaniel said, after a moment and the rest of the rice ball. "I'm not like you. I'm only..." He gestured at Elissa.

"We've had this conversation," Anders filled in. "He's only interested in women. At least until he's drunk enough to be interested in me. And I've checked, it's really just me. I'm just special, I guess."

"You were dead at the time, and I took it out on him," Nathaniel snapped, voice still lower than the ambient noise in the room.

"Are you sure that's all it was?" Elissa asked, still teasing but her tone softening to counter the hard edge in Nathaniel's. "Surely there were other Wardens to take it out on, and he is handsome in a rugged sort of way."

"Less rugged," Nathaniel muttered. Under Elissa's hand, his spine was tense as a bowstring. "He didn't have the beard at the time, and he wore Circle robes."

Elissa peered up at Anders, trying to find the shape of his face under the beard and flowers. "If that's the only objection you have to my statement, then I suspect you've answered my question."

Anders came to the rescue. "No one else would have him." He laughed. "Two pretty girls joined with us, but he was too human for one and the other ... I guess he wasn't her type. And none of us were fools enough to try Amell."

"None of you were smart enough to try Amell," Zevran corrected, with a sly smile.

"You kind of beat us to it. No one wanted to be the one to upset the Crow." Anders grinned.

"You thought I would be upset? Even after you and I...?" Zevran looked confused and amazed.

"No, but I knew she kicked your ass without a second thought, and I thought I'd spare myself." Anders laughed, easily. "Besides, she's the Commander. It would've been weird."

Nathaniel cocked a thumb at Anders and nodded. "I may have gone charging in to kill her, by myself, but I wasn't stupid enough to ..." He shook his head. "And the man's right. She was our commander. That wasn't even an option." Still, he thought wistfully of Velanna, for a moment, but only a moment. One of these years, that elf was going to be the death of him.

"No one else would have him? My Nathaniel?" Elissa looked terribly surprised. "But look at him! He's so--"

"Fereldan," Zevran finished, and Anders nodded.

"And that's a bad thing?" Elissa asked as though the very idea were foreign to her. "And weren't you all _in_ Ferelden at the time?"

"Unfortunately," Zevran sighed, just to watch the Fereldans scowl.

"Fereldans have their charms," Anders said. "But none of the ladies seemed to appreciate them, or to at least appreciate them enough to put up with the Warden factor." He was careful now with the cheese dip, managing not to catch any more of it in his beard.

"Well, clearly they had no taste," Elissa huffed. "There is nothing better than a strong Fereldan man." She squeezed Nathaniel's bicep with the hand not around his waist.

"I can think of a few better things," Nathaniel drawled, reaching past Zevran for another rice ball. "But I appreciate the support."

Zevran eyed Anders, who took the opportunity to flex ostentatiously.

"Screw you," Nathaniel mangled out around a mouthful of sticky rice. "You were thinner then, too." Or at least that's what he was trying to say.

"Screw me?" Anders batted his eyes. "Oh, Warden Howe, I've been looking forward to it, this whole trip."

Nathaniel managed to swallow after a few false starts. "Not with that beard I'm not." He paused. "We're not in the Deep Roads, I'm getting married, you've got a boyfriend--"

"He's not my boyfriend," Anders argued. "It's not like that."

"You could've fooled me." Nathaniel snorted. "He's not exactly a 'gentleman caller' if you _live with him_."

"Lived with you, too," Anders pointed out. "And definitely enjoyed the benefits. You were my boyfriend, too, Howe?"

"A fucker is what you were," Nathaniel grit out through his teeth. "And you lived with the rest of the Wardens too. You and I didn't live _alone_ together."

"Alone? Hardly, with Harellan and Purrsino around." Flippant tone aside, there was something stiff in Anders's smile.

"Cats?" Zevran asked, licking cheese from his fingers.

"One a cat, the other a camel."

"Building a home together, owning pets together... I am not sure that helps your argument, Warden Kasselmann." Zevran turned to better watch Anders and Nathaniel, leaning his hip against the table and pulling the bowl of dip closer to him.

Anders rolled his eyes, pulling the cheese dip back his way. "Fine. Believe what you want. He's my boyfriend, and we're going to get married and have a dozen babies."

Zevran choked on the cheese dip. "I believe that requires some parts neither of you have, and I am very certain of that assessment." He grinned at Nathaniel. "Let him be. He's a mage. You know what they're like."

"Shh!" Anders cautioned, glancing around. "I'm a polearms specialist. Halberds versus hurlocks. Very effective."

"Is he really?" Elissa asked Nathaniel.

"Is he really what? A pain in my ass?"

"Well, I think we've already established that with some certainty." Elissa chuckled and balanced some more dip on an unidentifiable fried vegetable. "I meant, is he truly a polearms specialist? You must have an opinion, given we've also established he's handled your pole."

"Andraste's tits aflame!" Nathaniel snapped, neck reddening. "I don't know! Ask Zevran!"

"Ah, but I think you have far more experience with the subject." Zevran smiled, almost pleasantly. "All the same, I had no complaints. Well, no, one complaint. He was not nearly the pain in my ass I suspect he must have been in yours."

"Why do I talk to you people?" Nathaniel groused. "At this rate, why do I talk to people at all?"

"Because you like when I'm a pain in your ass?" Anders said with a sly look.

"I assure you that is not the reason," Nathaniel replied.

Zevran gave Anders a hopeful look, but Anders shook his head.

"No. I only plan to be a metaphorical pain in your ass, Zev. Solona would kill me if I broke her favourite elf."

"Ah, my friend, but it might be worth it." Zevran was all charm and smiles, but he was unsurprised by Anders's continued refusal.

"It would not be," Anders assured him.

"You boys are making me terribly curious," Elissa said, eyes raking over Anders's body.

"Flagpole," Nathaniel filled in. "As in, the whole keep saw him run a flag up it."

"Hung a flag off it," Anders argued. "Less ropes and pulleys. And it's not worth it. I strongly advise against it."

"I was much too drunk to have an opinion, so stop looking at me," Nathaniel retorted, folding his arms across his chest.

"You very definitely had an opinion _while_ you were drunk," Anders pointed out.

"Oh, yes," Zevran agreed, "a very loud and extremely favourable opinion. I have heard it, myself, and for many hours. The lady dwarf and I were making bets about what he was doing to you."

Nathaniel looked haunted as he turned his gaze to Zevran. "Yes, do keep talking. Maybe I'll just stay in Starkhaven. I'm sure there's a need for Wardens, here, after that accident in the Vimmarks, a few years ago."

"That wasn't an accident," Anders protested. "That was a Hawke family holiday."

"And you hate Starkhaven," Elissa reminded Nathaniel, with a gentle pat on the back.

Nathaniel did not look reassured. "This doesn't count as a Hawke family holiday, right?"

"It's not a Hawke family holiday until someone is on fire," Anders said, looking around. "But the night isn't over."

"And there's always a chance I'll set one of you two on fire," Nathaniel replied.

"Just wait until after the Antivan blessing," Zevran insisted, reaching around Anders's arm for more cheese dip. "I am very much looking forward to that."


	86. Chapter 86

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anton is looking for someone to teach him archery, for those days when knife throwing won't go far enough.

At the back of the ballroom, Anton and Cullen reappeared, looking little worse for their time away, although Cullen looked like he might wring someone's neck.

"I would still feel better if you had archers. Someone in your office prepared to shoot back, if this happens again." Cullen glared at an approaching chevalier until the man sharply adjusted his course away from the two of them.

"And what do you know? A terribly talented archer standing by the cheese dip. At the wedding of a decent archer." Anton smiled jauntily at Cullen and directed him toward where Anders was still trying to defend the dip from Nathaniel and Zevran.

"Warden." Cullen nodded at Anders. "Other Warden." He nodded at Nathaniel. "My husband finds himself in need of a few extremely talented archers to guard his idiot self against assassins at a distance, or at least to put an end to them, after they make their attempt."

"I am already up to my neck in lunatic Marcher politics," Nathaniel protested. "And on that note, I'm going to go see how your sister's holding up, Viscount. By which I mean, ask the Crow. He's everywhere I don't want him to be."

"Not everywhere, but close to it," Zevran said with a wink, taking the opportunity to steal back the cheese dip while Anders was distracted. 

"Getting advice on how to thwart assassins from an assassin?" Anton mused. "There is something poetic about that, I suppose."

"That is not the adjective I would use," Cullen grumbled, "but I'm sure he knows a thing or two."

"Oh, I know quite a bit more than that," Zevran assured them. "It is not a bad thing for a viscount to be careful, especially a viscount of a place like Kirkwall, but I suspect this is more than just a general precaution, yes?"

"Has someone threatened you?" Anders asked, accent slipping as he leaned in towards Anton. His eyes looked a bit blue around the edges.

"Please, my week doesn't start until I've had three death threats cross my desk. And that's on a slow day."

" _Anton_!" Cullen groaned, turning to Elissa. "Does your brother do this?"

"Mm-mmh." Elissa shook her head and swallowed. "I do it for him."

"Am I genuinely surrounded by idiots?" Cullen demanded, and glanced over his shoulder when Zevran pointed behind him.

"In front of you, thieves and assassins. Behind you, Orlesians. So, I suppose you have idiots behind you." Zevran grinned and reached for the dip again.

"Of course," Anton cut in, "if I were to hire someone to guard me, I'd be hiring someone who could probably be paid twice as much to kill me. If I learn to do it myself, I don't have this problem."

"Ah, but if you get killed, who will be there to take immediate vengeance?" Zevran asked, licking cheese off his fingers.

"But, I'm not going to get killed. That's kind of the point." Anton's hand flicked and the handles of two gold dessert spoons appeared in it. "Which pattern, do you think? The flowers or Andraste?"

"You are not stealing from the royal family of Starkhaven," Cullen insisted, reaching out to snatch the spoons, only to find them not where he expected them to be. "Maker, Anton, it's a political event. Everyone's here."

"Who said anything about stealing? I just thought they might look nice for our state events in Kirkwall, but I don't know which one I like better!" Anton shrugged expressively.

"They're both a bit too Orlesian, I'd say," Elissa answered, scrutinizing the pair of spoons. "Though they are lovely, I doubt the Viscount of Kirkwall needs to bring anything more Orlesian back into his city."

"The lady makes an excellent point," Anton said, the spoons disappearing from sight again. Cullen hoped they would appear again later in the proper place. "Though there is something delightful about holding Andraste's face while you eat."

Anders opened and closed his mouth a few times. "I just had an image of the groom's belt buckle I did not need."

"I don't think anyone needed that," Cullen replied with a pained look. "Least of all Andraste."

"Back to the subject at hand, you are thinking to learn the peasant art of archery?" Zevran looked up at Anton, contemplatively. "Not afraid it will ruin your noble image?"

"Doesn't seem to have ruined Chantry Boy's." Anton shrugged.

"He's a third son," Elissa pointed out. "It's excusable."

Anton gestured to himself and raised his eyebrows.

"Yes, but your brothers aren't..." Anders glanced at Cullen and shrugged.

"Maker, how many times do you want me to apologise for that!?" Cullen rubbed his face. "I was wrong. It hadn't occurred to me that questioning the Chantry was something I could do!"

"What are you--?" And then Anton caught the gist. "Not in my Kirkwall. My brothers are high-ranking noblemen in one of the three most powerful cities in the Marches, and I'll not stand for them to be treated as anything less!"

"Yes, but that only works as long as it is _your_ Kirkwall. Once you die..." Cullen shrugged.

"Well, I'd expect you to keep it that way! You're the one in charge of all that!" Anton put his hands on his hips and squinted sidelong at Cullen.

"You'd better not die before me! I've got enough lyrium in me it's floating my eyeballs! I'm the templar in this relationship! I'm supposed to die first!" Cullen paused. "Isn't this entire conversation about you _not_ dying?"

"How's your aim?" Zevran asked, studying Anton's shoulders.

"I'd demonstrate, but I don't want to give the Orlesians an excuse. Let's just say if Sebastian came a few feet closer, I could hit Andraste right in the eye." Anton grinned and slipped an arm around Cullen's waist.

"I would truly suggest investing in a good crossbow." Zevran took a rice ball and paused a moment before shrugging and dipping it into the cheese. "You'll get good distance, if you pick the right one, and it's going to be a lot less training for you to fire it with any real skill."

"Crossbows are heavy and slow," Anton argued. "A bow much less so, as Warden Howe has aptly demonstrated in my company."

"It's a good thing Varric isn't here to hear you say that," Cullen replied. "He might be offended on Bianca's behalf."

"If he would tell me where I could get a crossbow like Bianca, I might rescind at least half of that comment." Anton shrugged, looking around as though checking to see if Varric would magically appear. "And even Bianca is too bulky for my needs."

"Afraid a crossbow might ruin your sleek silhouette?" Elissa asked, sneaking a rice ball and dipping it in the cheese Zevran was guarding.

"I'm afraid an arrow might," Anton drawled. "And I'm not concerned about the amount of training involved, as long as I can learn the basics quickly. As viscount, if I decide I need to take some time to learn archery, I can take that time. As viscount, the assassins already think I'm dead, so I have all the time I need."

"Well! Perhaps it is time for me to visit Kirkwall again. I have some work to finish up in Antiva, but I can let that wait. Makes them very nervous when I do that." Zevran laughed and stepped toward Anders. "But, right now, I think it is best that I mingle a bit more. I am meant to be representing the devastatingly beautiful Warden-Commander of Ferelden, after all." He paused and looked at Anton. "You really do look very much like her, do you know that?" Shaking his head, he patted Anders on the back. "Sadly, you do not know; she could not be here, tonight, because of some troubles with an old friend. Maybe next time, yes?"

With a wink at Elissa, Zevran slipped away, ducking back into the crowd.

"He's really like that," Anders sighed, reaching for the dip with a fried... broccoli, he thought, only to smack it into the table. "All the time." He missed again, and finally looked. "And he went off with the dip, too!"

"He what!?" Elissa leaned to the side to see around Anders. "That shit! You wait here." She smiled wickedly. "I'll bring it back."

Cullen watched her go. "That elf is in serious trouble, isn't he?"


	87. Chapter 87

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introducing Sebastian to the idea of the Antivan blessing. He has doubts, but the daughter of a well-placed Antivan merchant family is on hand to set those to rest.

After escaping the clutches of the idiots surrounding the cheese dip, Nathaniel worked his way over to one of the saner inhabitants of the room. Though he supposed he might need to reassess his values of sanity, since she had, after all, just married Sebastian.

Nathaniel found Bethany shaking with laughter at something the Marchioness of Ansburg had said. He feared, for a moment, that he would be intruding on their conversation, but Bethany caught sight of him and waved him over, her face brightening.

"Ah, Nathaniel!" Bethany greeted him while the Marchioness eyed him appreciatively over the rim of her glass. "I was wondering where you had disappeared off to. I am itching to dance, but the Orlesians have hemmed in my husband. Care to rescue me, or shall I ask Ansburg?"

"How much dancing can you do in that, Princess?" Nathaniel asked, gesturing at the snowy mountains of fabric that made up her wedding dress.

"Well, I can certainly dance my way over to the refreshments table," Bethany answered.

"I would be greatly honoured to lead you to a glass of wine." Nathaniel held out his arms and glanced at the Marchioness. "Excuse us, Lady Thalia."

"Don't you worry about me, Warden. I'm sure the view will be excellent." Thalia winked teasingly, and Nathaniel rolled his eyes and shook his head.

Bethany's dress was monstrous, but growing up in a noble family had prepared Nathaniel for that, and he rested his hands at Bethany's waist, the bell of her skirts bowing a bit at his legs. As another song began, he swept her into the middle of the ballroom, starting slow, as they worked their way into the crowd. But, Bethany was better at this than he'd expected, given that she'd grown up south of Redcliffe, from what he'd heard -- and as a farmer's daughter.

Bethany smiled at him, obviously working over a thought before she said it. "Nathaniel, I don't know what Sebastian's said to you, but before the wedding, this morning --" she paused and swallowed a laugh with great difficulty. "-- he proposed I sleep with you to preserve our soon-to-be marriage."

Nathaniel groaned. "I'm sorry he's an idiot. There's really nothing for it. He was an idiot eighteen years ago, and he's still an idiot now. But, I'm sure you must have figured that out at some point in the relationship."

"I have had some suspicions, yes," she teased. Stepping in time to the music, she studied Nathaniel's face. "But that was not the reaction of someone surprised. Has he talked to you about it already?"

"He made some... suggestions," Nathaniel answered, careful not to step on her dress at some particularly intricate footwork. "I responded much the same way I did now and told him that he was an idiot."

Bethany chuckled, and with his hand on her waist, Nathaniel could feel the way it pulled at her stomach. "I am sure he is as aware of this fact as you and I are by now." 

"And yet, he still acts like an idiot."

"Not completely," Bethany corrected him. "He married me, after all, which was a very smart idea."

"I could dispute that, in the current political climate, but I also have a vague sense of self preservation that occasionally rears its head." Nathaniel chuckled. Step and turn, step and turn.

"Ah, but that depends on what one actually expects and desires." Bethany's smile didn't even flicker.

"I don't think an Exalted March is on anyone's list," Nathaniel pointed out.

"Orlais is far too occupied to make the attempt, and when their troubles are over, they're not going to be in any shape to mount an invasion." Bethany pirouetted out, and then returned.

"You speak of Orlais as if it is the Chantry and not just the Chantry's seat. I might make the distinction."

"No." Bethany shook her head, delicately, not to upset the flowers in her hair and headdress. "Of all the places Orlais has taken, the only one first seized with their army was Ferelden. The others were the aftermath of Marches and the promotion of the Andrastian faith in foreign lands. Orlais held Rivain, for a time after one of the Exalted Marches on the Qunari. I do not think the two are so different at all."

"But, the infighting won't involve the templars, which will still be dangerous." Nathaniel dipped Bethany, carefully. The dress rustled threateningly, its hoops banging against his shins.

"The infighting already involves the templars. You brought me the news. The White Spire is fallen and Kinloch Hold has caved in. They're in no position to mount a March, like this. The timing is perfect." Bethany grinned and fluttered her fingers at Elissa. "Lady Cousland tells me she's offered some men and money to help in the search for a new tower, in Ferelden. Such a tragedy. I truly hope no one was hurt."

"Not seriously, from what I hear," Nathaniel said. "Though it's hard to tell based on the number of mages that escaped, which is, I suspect, a bigger number than the templars there have let on. You're right. The Chantry has much to clean up first, but when mages don't toe the line, people get scared, and when people get scared, they do stupid things. Kirkwall and its Knight-Commander, with his compassionate treatment of mages, makes a fine scapegoat for those looking for one."

"Such a pessimist, Nathaniel," Bethany said. Her smile didn't change shape but managed to turn a shade harder. "People complain, of course, but the Divine is smarter than that. Or she is at least smart enough to surround herself with people smarter than that."

As the song slowed to a stop, Bethany and Nathaniel glided off the dance floor and towards the drink table.

"You speak well of Kirkwall, as I suppose you must, with your brother as viscount. I don't question that it is better than it was, when last I was there. It wouldn't take much to improve that, and I've heard much has gone into it. But, Anders..." Nathaniel's hands clenched as he stopped himself from running one through his hair in frustration. "I can't imagine. He was always so... obnoxiously merry. I don't know how else to say it. Did he really do...that? I know what Sebastian thinks, but I can't square it with the Anders I knew."

Bethany laid her hand gently on Nathaniel's arm. "He suffered, he became free, he came to know purpose. Or at least he came to know Justice. To the day I die, I will claim the official story is the truth."

"A fault in the construction that fell in when the dwarves tried to fix it?" Nathaniel scoffed.

"It fits the facts at hand." Bethany shrugged.

"Was it really... necessary? I was there. I would box the Divine, herself, to defend what happened in that courtyard, but the Chantry?" Nathaniel handed Bethany a glass of something bubbly and sweet.

"I also knew the Grand Cleric, though not as well. I knew her, politically." Bethany sighed and sipped the wine as Nathaniel poured himself a glass. "It was necessary. We even gave her the opportunity to survive it. We asked her to leave with everyone else, when we came to warn them. But, she refused. I had to carry Sebastian out of that room, out of the Chantry."

"I remember. Zevran and I... we could hear you." Nathaniel shook his head. "They tell us the Revered Mothers are holy, that they are right, that the Divine is infallible."

"She was nearly responsible for Cullen's death," Bethany pointed out, under her breath and over her glass, eyes scanning the room. "Told us if he was innocent, he'd be fine. I don't know what came out of that room, but it wasn't 'fine'. Unlike my husband, I have no regrets about the choices we made -- or she made -- that day."

Nathaniel glanced at her, and his eyes lingered, struck, for the first time. Yes, he knew she was beautiful, but she was also so many other things -- compassionate, commanding, decisive. "You remind me of Elissa," he said, after a moment.

He caught her response in the flash of a smile, a real smile and not the politician's offering he was used to in this place. Before words could follow that smile, however, Sebastian interrupted them with a hand on Bethany's waist and a kiss to her cheek.

"Thank you for looking after my fi-- my wife." Sebastian caught himself, still unused to their new titles, and he smiled down at Bethany, warmed by the reminder that, yes, she was his _wife_ now.

"I was worried the Orlesians might have eaten you alive, pumpkin," Bethany said, pouring another glass for him without asking. "Nathaniel and I were just comparing notes."

"On the Orlesians?" Sebastian asked nervously, taking the glass Bethany pressed into his hand.

"On you," Nathaniel corrected. "Bethany thinks that the wise decision of marrying her overshadows your general idiocy, but I still have doubts."

Sebastian laughed weakly. "As do I, some days."

"Oh, pumpkin, our Antivan guests would like to offer you a special wedding blessing, the way it's done in Antiva!" Bethany smiled warmly, a hint of mischief in her eyes.

"Maker," Nathaniel sighed. "Are you really letting them go through with that?"

"Why not! It'll be memorable!" Bethany's smile widened. "We can have that shirt framed and hung in honour of Antiva's best wishes."

"Shirt? Whose shirt? What shirt?" Sebastian looked completely confused.

"Your shirt," Bethany and Nathaniel answered, almost at the same time.

"What does a blessing have to do with my shirt? Do I need to bring back Her Grace to perform it?" Sebastian glanced around the room, hoping the Grand Cleric had decided to put in an appearance at the reception.

"They want to spit wine on you," Nathaniel clarified. He knew bloody well that Zevran was just being an ass, but the idea of a hundred nobles spiting wine on Sebastian was just too much to pass up. "Actually, they want everyone to spit wine on you."

"That is disgusting." Sebastian blinked, waiting to be let in on the joke.

"I thought we could use that nice Orlesian burgundy. The price alone makes it less disgusting, and it'd be a lovely highlight to the white. I think it would stain wonderfully." Bethany hadn't stopped smiling, yet.

Sebastian laughed weakly, his eyes too wide. "You are joking, surely."

"I would never joke about someone else's culture," Bethany said with mock seriousness. "Please. You do not want to insult our Antivan guests, do you?"

Sebastian opened and closed his mouth before finally alighting on the proper words. He appealed to Nathaniel. "Have you been to an Antivan wedding? Are we sure this is a tradition?"

"Of course it is," Nathaniel said. Or, at least, he would hope it would become a tradition. "Why would your guests lie about that?"

"I... have not the slightest idea." Sebastian looked helplessly back and forth between his wife and his friend. "Will they be spitting on you, too?"

"I will escort you," Bethany said, "but they will be aiming for you."

"Of course they will," Sebastian muttered, taking a longer drink of whatever Bethany had poured him. Whatever it was, there was a pleasant warmth to the aftertaste.

Nathaniel mouthed 'cordial?' at Bethany, while Sebastian was absorbed in his drink, and she nodded in return, winking over the rim of her own glass as she drank. And really, Nathaniel thought that might be for the best, with what he'd heard about Sebastian getting drunk. Perhaps Bethany would get a traditional wedding night, after all. That or her brother would have it for her, which seemed to be a valid concern in this family.

"The Antivans suggested this?" Sebastian asked, a moment later, eyes scanning the crowd. "Where is that charming woman from House Montilyet? She seemed like the sort who would be above a prank, not like your brother's... 'friend'. It wasn't him, was it?"

"I'm certain Artemis would never stand for the mess. How could you think something like this could come from someone with an interest in not upsetting him?" Bethany shook her head. "No, no. We have more Antivans here than that."

"Definitely many more than that." Nathaniel thought of Zevran and debated saying something, but mentioning to a young ruler that there's a Crow at his wedding was probably not the best idea.

Sebastian hummed but looked unconvinced, scanning the crowd for the dark hair and ruffled sleeves of Lady Montilyet. He spotted her speaking with Jenet and brushed past Nathaniel in pursuit. Bethany and Nathaniel followed, both manoeuvring around the bell of her skirt.

"My lady," Sebastian called out, interrupting Jenet and Josephine Montilyet. "I have a question regarding Antivan mores I was hoping you might answer."

"Oh?" Josephine asked, setting aside the cake she had been nibbling at and licking a bit of frosting from her lips. "I would be happy to assist, Prince Sebastian." She offered a polite curtsy. 

Past Sebastian's shoulder, Jenet shot a questioning look at Nathaniel, who only shook his head and shrugged.

"I am told that, uh..." Sebastian ran a hand over his hair, smoothing it down as he tried to find a diplomatic way of asking this question. "That a few of our Antivan guests have requested an Antivan blessing."

Josephine blinked but hid her surprise well. "That sounds like a great honour. Which blessing are they considering?"

"It, ah..." Sebastian cleared his throat. "I'm told it involves a tradition of spitting wine on a new husband. Is this genuinely an Antivan tradition?"

Behind him, Bethany's eyes sparkled and Nathaniel remained in his usual unreadable funk.

"Spitting wine on the new husband?" Josephine struggled to contain herself, as she caught sight of Bethany subtly nodding at her. Ah! A favour. She could call it in, later. "How can you even ask such a thing! Haven't you ever been to an Antivan wedding?"

"They sent him to the Chantry, you know," Nathaniel murmured.

"Oh, you poor boy, missing out on the very best Thedas has to offer. You and your new wife simply must take a holiday. Go to one of the grand balls, or just enjoy the beaches. It is truly lovely in Antiva, in the summer." Josephine smiled, sympathetically.

Sebastian paled, waited for her to wave it off and say she was in on the joke. "So... it _is_ an Antivan tradition?"

"Of course!" Josephine assured him. "It is a marvellous tradition, and there are many here who would love to help you uphold it!"

Jenet looked askance at the lot of them but wisely did not mention that he had been to his share of Antivan weddings, and not once had anyone been spat on. Well. Except for that one time when the bride and the mother of the groom had nearly come to blows...

"How exciting!" Bethany crowed. "Isn't it exciting, pumpkin?"

"It's... yes." Sebastian stared down into his drink before remembering that it had better uses and taking another long swallow. Ah yes, the second drink felt just as warm as the first. "It would be rude of me to turn down such an honour from my distinguished guests. How do we start this?"

"First we check the time and the wine remaining," Jenet suggested. "I'd hate to see what would happen if the Orlesians aren't drunk enough for the idea."

"Why don't you and I take care of that, Jenet?" Nathaniel suggested, hoping to get far enough to watch this happen, without becoming involved.

As they made their way around the room, counting bottles and pouring drinks for those still empty-handed, Jenet eyed Nathaniel. "You know they're going to nail him to the door on every trade contract, after this. He's making an ass of himself."

"Does it matter? He'll be seen as adventurous and willing. Like Cailan. It's a good thing he's got us here to keep him out of trouble." Nathaniel shrugged. "Besides, haven't you always wanted to pour a glass of wine over his head? No? Ah, I've known him longer."

"Did you just compare us to Queen Anora?" Jenet asked, after a moment's consideration.


	88. Chapter 88

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Antivan blessing comes at last, and with it, the wedding winds down. Jenet makes an unfortunate assumption, and resists all attempts to correct him.

The 'blessing' ritual took some explaining, which Bethany was more than happy to do. The surprise was clear on their guests' faces, but no one dared to ask for fear of seeming uncultured.

Anders watched in amazement as the nobles lined up. "Is this really happening?" he asked Zevran, forgetting, for a moment, about the stolen bowl of cheese dip he had been after. "Did you really do this?"

"You're welcome," Zevran answered smugly. "Come, let us find a better vantage point. I do not know about you, but I cannot spit wine from this far."

Anders laughed nervously. "I'm trying to _avoid_ Sebastian's attention."

"Then aim for his eyes! If he can't see you, he can't try to kill you." Still hoarding the cheese dip, Zevran manoeuvred his way through the crowd.

Nathaniel, headed away from the crowd of nobles slowly forming into two lines, hooked his arm into Anders's and just kept walking, dragging Anders backward. "Don't. If he recognises you, Solona's going to have to get involved, because he's going to have us both executed, and unlike you, I am about to become a married man."

"You've been 'about' to become a married man for twenty years, Howe," Anders retorted, snorting as he staggered backward before matching his steps to Nathaniel's. "And this isn't helping. This is maximum attention."

Jenet appeared on the other side of Anders, Cormac in tow. "He's right, you know. Actually, you're both right, which is the point. Let go of him, Nate, we're drawing a lot of eyes. And I don't know who you are or why Nathaniel wants to keep you away from Sebastian, but I'm sure the reason is completely valid and probably involves assassins, so stay right here with this Antivan troublemaker while I go find the Hawke who's likely to start washing things, if I don't grab him."

Jenet didn't get far before Fenris found them with the aforementioned Hawke in tow. Fenris handed Artemis off to Cormac, pressing a kiss to his husband's cheek. "Hold onto this for me," he said. "I am off to find a bottle. Someone has to offer blessings on behalf of all of you." He bared his teeth in a grin and disappeared into the crowd.

"I'm not sure whether I should be disapproving or proud," Artie said, watching the top of Fenris's head for as long as he could spot the tufts of white. "I am conflicted." He scratched at his arm and leaned into Cormac, grateful no one had tried this at _his_ wedding. He almost preferred the dead magister.

With his hand in Bethany's, Sebastian stood in all his pristine glory, head held high. No one could say who spat first, though those nearby caught a glimpse of blond hair and a whiff of cheese. The first stain of red splashed across Sebastian's chest, and the crowd erupted in a cheer. Josephine had the honours next, setting the couple off in proper Antivan fashion.

"I think that's the first time I've liked a look on Sebastian," Cormac remarked to his brother, as they slipped through the ragged end of the crowd to the stairs leading up to the balcony Bethany and Sebastian had started the afternoon on.

"Up?" Nathaniel's eyebrows arced toward his hairline.

"Better view. Less people asking if we've already taken our spots in the line." Cormac grinned and shrugged, standing in the shadow the balcony cast across the stairs.

"It truly is an inspiring view," Nathaniel admitted, watching Sebastian's suit turn red.

"So, when were you going to tell me someone snuck in a Crow?" Jenet asked, cocking a thumb at Cormac.

Anders nearly choked on his strawberry juice. "If you can tell there's a Crow in the room, you're already out of danger. If you were in danger you'd never have known it."

"What me? A Crow?" Cormac laughed. "Don't be ridiculous. I would be thin and sleek. Instead, I am full of cheese and beer and dirty stories from every tavern between here and Val Dorma."

"In fairness, that sounds like just the sort of deflection a Crow would make," Artemis pointed out, leaning with his back against the balcony railing. Watching their reactions to Sebastian's reactions was good enough. If he didn't see the mess, he could pretend it wasn't there.

Jenet eyed Artemis. "So you knew? That he was a Crow?"

"I suspected there was a Crow nearby," Artemis said, eyes sparkling with amusement. "Potentially one who had been naked at the same time and place as I was, at one time." He was sure Fenris would have found this hilarious.

"I see," Jenet said as the crowd erupted into more cheers below.

Anders clapped a hand over his face to keep from honking with laughter. Sebastian had the look of a wet cat who was struggling to maintain its sense of dignity.

Just to Bethany's side, Lady Josephine could be seen talking to Zevran.

"Are you the one who talked them into this?" she whispered, watching the guests utterly ruin Sebastian's wedding suit.

"Me? No. I think it was the merchant's son, with the fake name." Zevran watched one of the Orlesian ladies in waiting spit across the bell of Bethany's gown. "It is a delight to watch, though, is it not? With a little push, we can have half of Orlais doing it, in a month."

"A month? You underestimate me. Three weeks, at the outside." Josephine chuckled. "I don't know your face. What house are you with?"

"Ah, for all that I delight in the joys of Antiva City, I live there no longer. My wife and I were caught in Ferelden during the Blight. I'm here representing the poor Warden-Commander, who couldn't step away from her duties to come to her cousin's wedding."

"So, it's true, then? These really are those Amells?" Josephine's eyebrow arced up. There had been suspicions, but due to the complete lack of transparency in the Hawke family, and the fact that the Warden-Comander had grown up in a mage tower, no clear confirmation had been made -- not that Josephine had a reason to care, yet. The connection hadn't become important to any of her investments or contracts.

"Oh, absolutely. Just ask Commander Cullen -- or better, look at his husband next to Commander Solona. They have almost the very same face. It's very distracting!" Zevran laughed, quietly.

"Is that so?" Josephine asked, seeking out Anton's face and trying to picture it on a woman's body. "It is doubly a shame she could not make it then. That would have been a fun comparison!" She chuckled. "It had not occurred to me that Commander Cullen would have known her. I wonder what that says about his tastes?" She turned an impish look on Zevran, who smirked.

"Exactly what you think it does, I suspect," he answered.

Another cheer went up in the crowd, and Zevran looked back in time to see Anton Hawke's wine make a gleaming arc in the air to land on Sebastian chest.

"I can see the headlines now," Josephine said. "'Kirkwall Viscount Spits On Prince of Starkhaven'. Wars will be declared, alliances ruined. Ah, this is my kind of party!"

"How much to take out a contract on Serault's second maid?" Bethany hissed in Zevran's direction, between spitters, her eyes darting irritatedly down to the stream of red across her own dress. Utterly intentional.

"You would need to ask a Crow, my lady." Zevran smiled slyly. "But, I hear many houses are having ... internal issues, recently. I can only assume someone is making a move upward."

"You live in Ferelden!" Josephine exclaimed. "How would you know?"

"I live very near some well-travelled Wardens. Suffice to say, I have friends in strange places." Zevran left out the part where his friends in the applicable places were all dead. But, he supposed he had new acquaintances, in the wake of the last coup. "I understand House Valisti is not looking so good, these days."

The line grew ever shorter, as Zevran continued to avoid saying too much. Just enough to be interesting had always been a talent of his. 

Sebastian, on Bethany's other side, glared moodily into the crowd, as he grew ever wetter and ever redder. The boldest among the guests would spit first and then jovially shake his hand, offering comments about how adventurous he was to allow a tradition like this to take hold in Starkhaven.

"Only the best!" Bethany cheerfully informed them, time and again. "Starkhaven has the best of everything, and we import wisely."


	89. Chapter 89

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian continues to struggle with the idea of actually having a wife. Nathaniel to the rescue.

Bethany studied Sebastian's suite with a new eye, as she changed out of her dress. Two maids helped unlace her from the difficult parts and carried away her clothes. The third she shooed out, before she washed. Princess Consort or not, she could wash her own face. By the time she had wrestled her hair down from its grand Orlesian style and pulled on a nightdress, Sebastian was already in bed, looking over some papers, with the bedside candle-lamp lit. Giving it no thought, Bethany made her way over to the bed and turned down her side, to get into it. It wouldn't be the most exciting of wedding nights -- she was sure there were several nights that involved no weddings at all that would always rank more exciting than this one -- but it had been a long day, and she was looking forward to a long night in what was supposed to be the most comfortable bed in the palace.

"That-- That is... What are you wearing?" Sebastian asked, suddenly sitting up straighter, the blankets falling away to reveal his button-front, full-body pyjamas, made of a heavy embroidered silk.

"A nightdress. It's what most people sleep in." Bethany blinked owlishly at her husband.

"It's..." Sebastian realised he was staring and flushed up to the tips of his ears. "Isn't it a little... _flimsy_?"

"Flimsy?" Bethany frowned down at herself. "I would hardly call this flimsy. This is what I normally wear to bed." She didn't mention that this nightdress was even more demure than what she was used to sleeping in. She ignored his blushing and started to climb into bed, but Sebastian stiffened even more, turning himself away. "What is it?" Bethany tried not to sound impatient, but she was _tired_.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

Bethany blinked at him. "Getting into our bed?"

"Yes, but... the _way_ you're getting in, the way you're twisting your hips like that." Sebastian narrowed his eyes at her. "Do you not remember what we discussed earlier?"

"I... _what_? Sebastian, this is the normal way I climb into bed. Shall I flop onto it face-first instead?"

"It's rather... distracting. Attention-grabbing, even." Sebastian held the papers up to the side of his face to shield his eyes. "I'm rather conflicted."

"Sebastian, you've slept next to me before. It's the same as it ever was, just that we're married." Bethany sighed and ran a hand through her hair. Perhaps she hadn't gotten all the cloth flowers out, after all.

"Yes, but you're -- we're usually wearing armour and sleeping on the ground. It's different!" Sebastian protested. "Now you're wearing this flimsy and provocative thing! You're nearly bare!"

Bethany looked down at herself, ensuring that all the buttons were fastened up to her neck and the sleeves were rolled down. But, no, everything was just as she'd thought. It was a fair bit more cloth than she tended to sleep in. "This is ridiculous. You'll listen to Nathaniel, won't you? I'll let him explain women's clothing to you. It's not meant to be _provocative_! It's warm and meant for sleeping in!"

With that, she snatched the robe -- his robe -- off the end of the bed and stormed out of the room, still pulling it on.

Bethany pounded on Nathaniel's door until he responded, with a curse that was perfectly understandable considering the time of night. He muttered a few more curses before he managed to open the door, his robe even more hastily thrown on than hers. 

"What's -- Bethany? Isn't there somewhere else you're supposed to be?" He looked her up and down and glanced pointedly down the hall.

Bethany answered with a scoff and an irritated toss of her hair. "You tell me! Maybe you can talk some sense into my dolt of a husband." Before he could reply, she pushed past him into his room.

From behind the loose curtain of the bed, Elissa joined the conversation. "What's he done this time, Bethany dear?"

"He's not letting me get in bed, in the manner in which normal people get in bed, wearing perfectly reasonable bedclothes! They're even far too warm for this far north! They're a southern Fereldan cut!" Bethany shrugged the robe she wore down to her elbows and turned a circle. "He insists it's flimsy and provocative!"

"I could always go correct his assumptions about what flimsy and provocative nightwear looks like," Elissa offered.

"Please don't upset Sebastian any further, my most darling." Nathaniel ran a hand through his hair, pulling most of it to the side. "But do lend me a few of your scantier pieces, so I can convey the idea."

"Oh, I'm sure you in them would be even more upsetting!" Elissa laughed and Bethany snorted.

"I'm not going to wear them! Maker's shiny ass, I'd look ridiculous, and they're not even my size! I'd look ridiculous even if they were my size!" Nathaniel stuffed his hands under his arms. "I'm just going to present them to him as perfectly normal things for a married woman to wear to bed with her husband!"

"We're still not married," Elissa reminded him.

"We might as well be; it's been twenty years!"

"You wouldn't look ridiculous, if you got the right tailor to do it for you," Bethany said, finally shaking herself from her study of Nathaniel's chest. "I know a woman in Kirkwall who does the most incredible work. Two of my brothers wear it regularly."

Nathaniel froze. "Please don't tell me which ones."

"No, it's more fun watching you try not to guess," Bethany said with a slim smile. "Still, as fetching as I am sure you would be in Elissa's undergarments, I would rather my husband didn't die of shock on our wedding night."

"At least not for that reason," Elissa replied, smirking. "Perhaps on another night."

"No, and both of you need to stop picturing it." Amidst poking through Elissa's things, Nathaniel pointed a stern finger at each of them. 

"Ooh, grab the red ones, Nathaniel," Elissa suggested. "That should get the point across."

"That should get him to faint even if no one's in them," Nathaniel muttered even as he plucked up her red set of lingerie. "But, that would, at least, also solve the issue of Sebastian keeping Bethany out of bed. If you knock him out, he can't complain." That would be Plan B, he decided: knocking Sebastian out the more traditional way. "Elissa, I'll be right back."

"Andraste guide you in your endeavour," she drawled.

"Just remember, Warden stamina." Nathaniel winked toward the bed as he herded Bethany out the door. A little ways down the hall, he caught Bethany watching him. "What?"

"A bit of your chest hair, up by your neck, is turning silver. I've got a brother about your age. It just got me thinking." Bethany shrugged.

"Blighted--! I'll have to pluck that, later." Nathaniel squinted down at his chest, unable to get an angle that would show him the part she was talking about. "Do you think about your brother's chest hair often, then?"

"He didn't spend much time in shirts, when we were younger. Of course, I've heard the time he spent out of shirts got him an awful lot of time out of his trousers, but I wouldn't know about that. Just that he looked like he had a fur coat on, all the time." Bethany chuckled. "Idle thought. I just wondered if he was going grey."

"It's this job," Nathaniel muttered, as they came up on Sebastian's door. "My hair is bad enough, but I'll not stand for it in my _chest hair_. That's a step too far."

"Ah, I suspect my dearest husband will have me turning grey sooner rather than later," Bethany sighed, running her fingers through still black hair. "I should find out if there's a spell to change one's hair colour. If there is, I'll pass it on."

"Good. Then you could change Jenet's hair purple."

This time Nathaniel pounded on Sebastian's door, hard enough to make it shake on its hinges. 

"I don't think it's locked," Bethany pointed out.

"I don't care," Nathaniel said. He waited until he heard movement on the other side of the door to shove it open.

"Sebastian!" Nathaniel called out, robe billowing behind him as he stormed into the room. He found a confused and owl-eyed Sebastian half out of bed. "I have known you for a decent number of years and have worked beside you tirelessly these past few months. Therefore, I feel that I can say with the utmost authority that you are a twit."

"I..." Sebastian's gaze flit to Bethany past Nathaniel's shoulder. "Probably. What are you...? Bethany, you didn't really--?"

There was almost an accusation in the way Nathaniel threw Elissa's underthings to the bed. Sebastian stared at them and recoiled, his face going through different shades of red.

Nathaniel pointed at the red lace. "I give you 'flimsy and provocative'. Now, compare to your wife..." He indicated Bethany with a sweeping gesture.

Bethany cleared her throat. "Also, I would like to point out that Nathaniel is showing more cleavage than I am right now."

Nathaniel blinked, his eyes nearly crossing in horror at that description, and he pulled his robe tighter around him. "Not really the point."

Sebastian squinted at Nathaniel, but not on a level with his eyes. "Are you... going grey?" he asked, gesturing at the same spot on his own well-covered chest.

"Really not the point," Nathaniel replied, turning up the collar of his robe. "The point is that your wife is dressed in nightclothes befitting a Chantry sister, and you can call upon the Grand Cleric, if you don't believe me, and you're not letting her lie down in the bed she's now supposed to share with you, so she can go to sleep. And this means that I am now out of my bed, which also contains a beautiful woman in a much greater state of undress, who would like to do much more exciting things than sleep."

"But-- It's--" Sebastian gestured futilely.

"Your wife. Your wedding night. Even if you don't get to anything exciting -- and with the look on her face, you should hope you don't -- you are supposed to at least make the gesture of sleeping in the same bed, or people are going to start gossiping. Mercilessly. We're talking about the stability of your reign, Vael. Just go to bed, with your wife, and have a good night's sleep."

Bethany yawned and rubbed her eye. "If my suite wasn't on the other side of the palace, I'd just take the servants' halls back and sleep there."

"Don't," Nathaniel warned. "The servants are the worst. Even if we have built up a team that can be trusted for the most part, something that unusual would set everyone chattering, and all it takes is the wrong thing overheard."

"Don't," Sebastian agreed, in a gentler tone. He fidgeted with the edge of the sheets, allowing himself to relax back into bed. "I apologise, Bethany. I am not acting in a manner befitting a prince. This is... all quite new to me."

Bethany harrumphed, but something in the set of her glare softened. "Indeed, you are acting in a manner befitting a twit, as Nathaniel so eloquently put it."

Sebastian ducked his head with a sheepish smile. "I will not argue that. Just... please stay?"

"I suppose on some level I should find it flattering that you find me in this provocative."

"Well... Not as provocative as..." Sebastian glanced at the undergarments on his bed, and his cheeks reddened again. "Nathaniel, I truly hope those are Elissa's."

"Oh, don't you start picturing me in them too," Nathaniel groaned.

Sebastian blinked up at him. "Well, I wasn't _before_..."


	90. Chapter 90

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the wedding ended, everyone rides off into the sunset to pick up their adventures at home, once again.

The morning sun dimly pierced the clouds over the palace as the first of the guests set off. The Viscount of Kirkwall rode out without a word, nicking a post horse and leaping the gate, before his husband and brother were even awake. But, the Antivan merchant and the Ander Warden set off together, toward Val Dorma, with a great lot of groping and sly smiles between them, and a few tears from Lord Hawke. Already mounted on his camel, wrapped in Ander-style robes, the Antivan leaned down for one final farewell.

"In the summer, you will come to me again, yes? And for me? And on me?" He pressed a kiss to the tip of his finger and swiped it onto Lord Hawke's nose, with a jaunty smile. "I will see you then," he promised, riding off after his Ander companion.

"I don't care if he is your brother's lover," Jenet muttered to Bethany. "He's a Crow."

"Come off it, Jenet! Have you ever seen a fat Crow?" Bethany chuckled, flicking a hand dismissively and then holding it out to the brother in question. "You look so sad, brother dear. Are you worried he'll run off with that Warden and forget all about you? I think he clearly has no intention of that. They both seem quite taken with you."

"Taken away, you mean," Artemis sighed, taking his sister's hand regardless. "On camel-back."

"Don't be so dramatic," she chided, bumping his shoulder with hers. "You'll see Mack again in a few months. I hope you'll at least pretend to be half as sad when you have to say goodbye to _me_." Which would be soon, once Artie had checked and double-checked their belongings.

"Oh, you know I'll pretend anything for my favourite sister," Artie teased, bumping her shoulder back. "Besides, Starkhaven is not so far away. You have no excuse to only see me once a year."

"Oh, I'm sure we can think up some excuses," Bethany replied. "Right, Jenet?" 

"Perhaps that he shouldn't be bringing Antivan Crows into the Royal Palace," Jenet remarked wryly.

Somewhere in the depths of the hall beyond the open door, a sound spilled forth that sounded distinctly like Nathaniel shouting unutterable things, but at this distance they weren't quite comprehensible. The sound of running feet followed, and then what might have been a fight.

Jenet gazed toward the door in concern. "Should I call for the guard, do you think?"

"Either the guard's already got to it or Nathaniel has it in hand, from the sound of things." Bethany shrugged, with a curious glance over her shoulder. "I'm sure we'll find out soon."

Fenris's eyes widened, as Elissa swept out of the entry hall, with one arm wrapped around the blond elf she carried under it. "I do not think those are Nathaniel's hands."

Red-faced and fuming, Elissa shoved the elf their way. "Put this on a horse and send it away!"

Zevran stumbled, but didn't seem too put out by the rough treatment, judging from the amount of cackling he was doing. "I had to offer him a proper goodbye!" he insisted.

Bethany failed to hide a laugh behind her hand. "Zevran, what did you do?"

"I was merely upholding a friendly tradition, Princess."

"I'm still using that!" Elissa snapped. "But if that's your idea of 'friendly', I can show you friendly." She cracked her knuckles.

Zevran held up his hands in surrender. "There is no need for that, I assure you. I am on my way." Zevran turned back to Bethany and swept into a bow. "My lady. I will tell your cousin hello, when I get back to Amaranthine."

"And please her tell that her presence was missed," Bethany replied. "I should like to meet her in person, one day."

"I'm almost starting to believe this cousin of yours is a myth," Fenris said in an aside to Artemis. "I hear grand stories, but she never appears."

"Maybe she's hiding something," Artie replied. "I can see Varric's next article: 'Hero of Ferelden Actually Two Dwarves in a Cloak'."

"Of all the things my wife may be, I can assure you two dwarves in a cloak is not on the list. However, Amaranthine does feature two dwarves in a cloak, and one of them is quite pretty."

An unusually golden horse was brought out, and as Zevran leapt onto it, Elissa brought her hand up under his foot and shoved, before he could land. He regained his balance by leaning toward her, and when she pulled her hand away, he stepped onto her head.

"You are very good at this," Zevran remarked, slapping the top of one foot against Elissa's face, to close her eyes, before he lightly leapt back to the horse. "You are from Ferelden, yes? Come visit, some time. Have Solona send for me. We will have a very good time."

"I know that keep better than you do," Elissa retorted, straightening her hair. "Nathaniel grew up there."

"Ah, yes. We shall see, then, won't we?" Zevran grinned.

"It's a good thing you're married to a mage, because you're going to be meat." Elissa laughed and slapped the horse's backside.

Unsurprisingly, it leapt forward, but Zevran didn't lose his balance. "Well, I hope you've got a good sauce in mind!" He laughed and rode off toward the gate.

"Crows," Elissa muttered, watching him go.

Jenet hummed in agreement, only to pause, brows furrowing. "Hold on, you don't think all those pub songs about the Hero of Ferelden's husband are true, do you?"

"All of them? Probably not." Elissa offered him a crooked smile. "But I know the part about him being a Crow is true."

Jenet turned a wide-eyed look on Bethany. "You had _two Crows_ at your wedding?"

"Did I?" Bethany asked airily. "Well, I know there was at least one."

Jenet ran a hand through his hair, eyes still too wide. Bethany laughed and patted his arm.

"Don't worry, Jenet. No one died."

"Yet," Fenris muttered, earning him a nudge from his husband's elbow.

"Honestly, Jenet, the Orlesians were more dangerous," Elissa assured him without being reassuring at all.


	91. Chapter 91

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anton's decided it's time to deal with Lady La Chapelle. First, he needs a little help from Sandal.

Anton sat to the side of Sandal's worktable. "You remember Justice, right? Can You make some runes to help me look like Justice?"

Sandal gave Anton an odd look and pointed at his hair. "Enchantment?" He shrugged.

"Well, not exactly like Justice. Just the glowy parts." Anton fluttered his fingers.

"Enchantment!" Sandal nodded and clapped his hands.

And, of course, Sandal did a magnificent job. Anton considered giving him a raise, but decided, for the moment, to get him a box of marchpane fruits -- something Sandal could actually appreciate. He'd give the money to Bodhan, later.

* * *

  
Bran stood at the end of the council table, where Anton usually sat. This was another of those idiot Hawke ideas, and he strongly disapproved, but Anton would not give up the plan. Aveline waited outside the doors, looking just about as entertained.

"Today, Kirkwall must come together to discuss a serious issue, something that affects us all. A little more than a week ago, in a late meeting, an assassin struck our viscount. Lord Hawke took an arrow to the neck." Bran paused, clearing his throat, and caught Baroness Merrill's eye. He looked down at the papers on the table in front of her. Most of the table took the hint and began to examine the apparently identical packets, before them.

Merrill looked confused, but that was common at these meetings. "Oh!" she burst out, after a moment. "Is he truly dead?" Between the lines had been an instruction to pretend that was the case. Of course, she'd seen him in the last week, in Starkhaven.

The table erupted in confusion and sputtered half-sentences, but Bran waved them down. "The important thing is that the Guard Captain and I were able to find, in the papers Lord Hawke was carrying, at the time, an explanation of sorts for this attack. I still have these papers, and they have been entered into storage, for safekeeping. Apparently, this is not the first assassination of a viscount, in Kirkwall's history, and in fact, the same villains who slew Viscount Threnhold have beset our own Viscount Hawke."

"Wasn't that the templars?" Lord Tolbert exclaimed, with a look of horror. "Are you saying he's been killed by his own husband?"

Bran offered him a thin smile. "As tempted as I'm sure the Knight-Commander was on occasion, no. The templars were at fault with Viscount Threnhold, yes, and more specifically, our late Knight-Commander Meredith had her hand in that. But she did not work alone." He paused for dramatic effect, looking around the room. He was, perhaps, laying it on a bit thick, but this whole thing was ridiculous anyway. "In fact, the family responsible for handing Viscount Threnhold over to the templars is represented at this table. That very same family has repeated its crimes."

A stiff silence fell over the gathered nobles as they assessed Bran and each other with furtive looks. Lady La Chapelle pursed her lips but reacted much the same as the others, as far as Bran could see.

"That is quite an accusation," said Lord Brannon. "And an alarming one. Are you quite certain?"

"And do you have proof of this, or are you throwing out wild guesses?" Lord Bonnaire added with a disdainful sniff.

A soft sound of cloth came from the back of the room, and a bright blue glow lit that end of the room.

"Demons!" Lord Marchaund shouted, leaping out of his chair.

"Confess!" Anton's voice echoed through the room. He made a note to buy Sandal some more cakes on the way home -- that Tevinter-style amplification rune was an amazing addition. "Confess or you will never be free of me!"

"Get the Knight-Commander!" Lady LeClair cried out, caught on the arm of her chair.

Anton looked pityingly at her, blue light flickering more intensely across his face. "Do you think my husband will provide relief to my killer?" He turned back to the room. "Confess your crimes, or I shall bring down the horrors of the Fade upon your house until the end of time!"

"He's not accusing anyone," Lady Faolain pointed out. "He doesn't know!"

Anton levelled a finger at Lady La Chapelle. "Your father let Meredith's men into the Keep. You did not show up for our meeting. No, you knew what I had found, and you moved to have me silenced. But let all of Kirkwall know, the La Chapelles have assaulted two viscounts, and yet, they remain free! I shall walk behind you each day in the market and announce it! You will never be free of me, unless you confess!"

"That's ridiculous, anyway. Threnhold was guilty." Lady Olmos crossed her arms.

"Was he? Ask the Knight-Commander who slew Guylian." Anton's smile looked far wider than it could have been in the glowing distortion around him.

In the blue light, Lady La Chapelle's face looked grey. She sat as far back as her chair would allow, her round eyes reflecting the glow. "This can't be," she said. "You're dead. And... and I don't know what--"

Anton's stare sharpened fixed on her, his finger still levelled in accusation. "Confess!" His voice boomed, loud enough for Lady La Chapelle to feel in her bones.

"Spirits of the dead haunting you?" Merrill murmured with pretend earnestness. "You must have done something terrible. He's not going to leave you alone unless you do what he says. Anton, if she confesses, will you be at peace?"

"I-I have nothing to confess!" Lady La Chapelle insisted. Anton took a step towards her, and she nearly crawled out of her chair.

"I don't understand," said Lady Faolain sharply. "How could the La Chapelles be responsible for this?"

"It is a great horror to take in, is it not?" Bran replied, wondering how much longer this would take. "That a family with so much power could so dreadfully misuse it, and so habitually."

Lady Faolain shook her head. "No, no! How? In detail."

"Oh, I'd certainly like to see Warden Howe in greater detail!" Merrill chimed in from the other end of the table. "Though I've heard he isn't very good with a sword."

Lady Olmos barely swallowed a snicker.

"You!" Lord Marchaund pointed at Merrill. "This is some demon and you've summoned him!"

"Ridiculous," Lady LeClair responded. "She's on the city's demon hunting team. What good would she do if she were summoning them?"

Bran raised his voice. "The La Chapelles have always been close to the viscount's household, regardless of the viscount, and we have the documentation to support that various members of the family, most particularly Lady La Chapelle's mother, visited regularly and late into the evening with Viscount Threnhold. In fact, the servants' books record her and her husband having been present the night newly-named Knight-Commander Meredith set upon the keep -- a keep she should not have been able to overtake."

"The Qunari did it, just five years ago!" Lady Faolain protested.

"No one closed the doors, when the Qunari came," Bran pointed out. "Instead, they all ran outside and met their deaths, leaving us undefended."

"Well, how do you know Threnhold's men closed the doors?"

"Because the doors were locked at the same hour every night, and there's a logbook. A hundred logbooks, actually. Every check of the doors, gates, and latches, every night of Threnhold's reign. The man knew he had enemies." Bran smiled thinly. "Those records can be produced. I know exactly where they are for the night in question."

"Surely there were plenty of others in the building at the time," Lord Tolbert protested, even as he inched away from Lady La Chapelle. "It is a stretch to accuse one woman without further proof!"

All the while, Anton stared down Lady La Chapelle, holding her gaze unnaturally long and not blinking once. "She knew I had proof. That's why she killed me. You should know that not even death can silence me!"

"Nothing could silence you in life," replied Lord Brannon. "I am unsurprised that this is unchanged in death."

"You and your family will never know sleep or peace," Anton went on, still staring at Lady La Chapelle, who was shaking hard enough to rattle the chair, "until you confess to what you have done! Confess! Confess!"

"All right!" Lady La Chapelle blurted, squeezing her eyes shut. "Yes! Just leave me alone!"

"Yes?" asked Lady Faolain with a narrowed look. "Yes, what? Yes, you'll _confess_?"

"It was House Valisti!" Lady La Chapelle cried out. "And it cost us many royals! Father said you would bring down the whole Chantry if we didn't protect ourselves!"

Which meant her father, at least, knew how deep this went. The now-retired Lord La Chapelle had understood the stakes, when he'd agreed to remove Threnhold -- Orlesian money. Anton called out for the door, "Aveline, come take her. Her father knows, even if she doesn't. You'll need to protect her from him, until we get this sorted out."

He realised he was still shouting and fumbled around in the outfit he wore, disengaging runes as he went, until he stood before the room in something not so different to his usual clothes, albeit stained with nug blood and sprinkled with a reflective powder.

"Boo," he said to Lady La Chapelle, as Aveline finished chaining her hands.

What little colour was left in Lady La Chapelle's face drained away. Aveline dragged her away before she could start raging or foaming at the mouth.

"Well done, Anton!" Merrill applauded, until she looked around to see no one joining her in the applause. "No? I thought his acting was great!"

"You... faked your own death?" asked Lord Marchaund. He blinked at Anton in shock. "Just to force a confession out of her?"

"Well, at first it was to stave off any other assassination attempts," Anton replied cheerfully. "Coming back as a 'ghost' was a stroke of inspiration that came later."

"Now can you please wash that off?" Bran asked Anton. "You look ridiculous."

"No, I looked horrifying. That was the idea."

"Horrifyingly ridiculous then."

"You looked wonderful, Anton," Merrill assured him. "Almost like Justice, when he gets all... Justicey!"

"Yes, well, I thought if I actually looked like a spirit people knew -- or at least had seen -- it would be much more convincing. I'm going to buy Sandal some more cakes. This really did the job perfectly." Anton slid a rune into place and flicked his fingers, lightning crackling between them. "But, on to more important things. First we have to fill that chair, and then we need to settle the last treaties with Starkhaven. Prince Sebastian has gained himself some cunning advisors, of late, my sister among them."

"It was a lovely wedding," Merrill said, with a nod. "And your son is very handsome, Bran. He looks so very much like you!"

Bran cleared his throat and edged toward the door. "Thank you. Will you be needing anything else, Viscount?"

"Get me the noble rolls," Anton said, picking up the curtain that had hidden him from view and wiping his hands on it. "I want to see who would most benefit us in this newly-opened seat."

"Of course, messere," Bran said with a respectful nod as he ducked out of the room.

"We are doing this now?" asked Lord Bonnaire. "Her seat is still warm!"

"And still empty. There's still much to do in Kirkwall, and I don't want us slowing down because we dawdled on this. There should be plenty of options to choose from." As he spoke, Anton slid into his chair at the head of the table, as though this were any other council meeting. Bran returned with the noble rolls, and Anton dismissed him with a grateful smile.

"What about De Carrac?" Lord Tolbert suggested as Anton pored over names. "He comes from a family of good repute."

"And then soils that reputation," Anton sighed. "Or have you not heard about his wife?"

"His wife's dead. Something about the Lily Killer, wasn't it?" Lady Olmos rubbed her forehead and examined the other half of the agenda for the day.

"And when she was alive, she ran off because he beat her." Anton leaned back in his chair and squinted at the ceiling. "And if the man beats his own darling wife, what would he do to our fair city?"

"How do you even know this?" Lord Bonnaire demanded.

"Before I was viscount, I was an adventurer for hire. He tried to pay me to bring her back to him, because he was afraid of what she might tell her family about him." The legs of Anton's chair clacked against the floor as he rocked back forward. "So, no. Not Ghyslain de Carrac."

Lord Brannon hummed, one hand toying with his beard. "I suspect Orlais is already rather well-represented as it is anyway."

Lady Faolain smirked, but Lady LeClair bristled, the plumes of her great hat quivering. "We are seeking to replace Lady La Chapelle!" she reminded him. "That means the council is down one Orlesian!"

"And we are the better for it," Lord Brannon replied. He smiled when her hat quivered some more. 

"Children, play nice," Anton sighed. "There are plenty of other names on the list." 'Plenty' wasn't quite the word, but he paused at a familiar name. "What about Lady Selbrech?" Anton knew her daughter, Marlein. She had been one of the few templars brave enough to defy Meredith. Hopefully she had inherited some of her better traits from her mother.

"You just wanted to suggest someone who wasn't Orlesian," Lord Tolbert huffed, crossing his arms.

"She's about as Orlesian as you are," Lord Brannon muttered.

"Tolbert is a perfectly Orlesian name!" Lord Tolbert protested, puffing his chest.

"Is not," Lady LeClair replied. "I wrote to the Council of Heralds."

The entire table breathed in at once.

"Lady Selbrech, then?" Anton asked Bran, and without waiting for an answer, he continued. "Yes, I agree. An excellent choice. Couldn't have picked better, myself."

"You did pick, yourself," Lady Faolain reminded him.

"Nonsense. I picked Lady Selbrech." Anton smiled blandly.

"You know de Launcet's going to throw a fit when he hears he's been passed over again. And his son being a mage is hardly the strike against him it was with the last administration," Lady Descoteaux pointed out. "What will we tell him, this time?"

"We tell him that when he can do a better job representing his constituents than a _Dalish elf_ , we might consider offering him a seat, again." Lord Bonnaire snorted. "No offence to the Baroness. All offence to Lord de Launcet."

"No offence taken," Merrill replied sweetly. "It will be nice to have a fresh face at our meetings! Not to imply that I don't like seeing your faces. Or that your faces aren't fresh, or... I'll shut up now."

Anton reached across to pat her hand. "We know what you mean."

"Well, the viscount's face would certainly be fresher without that ghastly make-up," Lady Olmos muttered.

"Really? And here I thought I would start a new trend." Anton winked at her. "I just returned from the dead. I'm allowed to look ghastly."


	92. Chapter 92

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anton decides he should celebrate his victory with his darling husband, and sets out to the Gallows, still dressed in his ghost costume.

A few hours later, with the rest of the council's business settled, Anton decided it was time to pay his husband a visit. Dropping into the sewers beneath the Keep, he engaged the glowing runes on his costume, once again, this time to light his way. Perhaps unsurprisingly, nothing bothered him, all the way to the Gallows.

As he clambered out of the manhole in the water room, a shout went up -- "Demon! Ring the alarm! Demon in the water room!"

Right. Cullen had placed a guard at all the entrances Anton had been able to find. "Mallory. Mallory! It's just me!" Anton waved his arms and disengaged the rune. "I had to put on a bit of a show, for the council. It's nothing serious. Don't tell my husband I'm here, yeah? I'd like to surprise him."

Mallory still had his sword drawn and pointed at Anton, but at least he had stopped shouting. He squinted at Anton. "...viscount?"

"That's me," Anton sighed. "Just a typical day's work."

"I... uh." Mallory blinked, realising belatedly that he hadn't lowered his sword yet. He rushed to sheathe it. "Welcome, but I recommend not glowing while you're in the tower. Not unless you want to be beset by well-meaning templars."

"Now, Mallory, you know I only like a good besetting by the one templar." He winked and clapped Mallory on the shoulder as he passed.

"I don't get paid enough," Mallory muttered to his boots.

Up several flights of stairs and past the confused gazes of a multitude of templars and mages, Anton finally arrived at the door he was looking for. He slid the last rune into place and opened the door, pulling it shut behind him. Cullen didn't even look up, just held up a finger and kept writing.

"Whatever it is, just stand there a minute. I'm almost done." The scratch of the pen was the loudest sound in the room for a long moment, until Cullen snapped it back into the rack and raised his eyes from the drying paper. "Maker's breath!"

He leapt out of his chair, knocking it over and slamming into his desk as he lunged for his sword.

"Wrong sword, dear husband," Anton quipped, leaning on the doorframe.

"Back, demon! Back!" Cullen's eyes watered and his breath shortened as he levelled the sword at the thing with Anton's face. _Always the thing you most desire_ , he thought, before realising that wasn't actually a description of Anton, not that he'd _tell_ Anton that. He had political concerns that far outweighed his desire to ravish his husband. The thing he most desired was for the experiment that was Kirkwall to be okayed by the Divine.

"I forgot!" Anton disengaged the runes and tossed them on the floor, one by one. "It's just me. Sandal did the work. I just came from dealing with La Chapelle. She thought she killed me. I thought I'd help. It's just me. I swear."

It took a moment for Anton's words to sink in, for the reality of what he was seeing to make sense to Cullen. His husband looked solid and real enough, but then they always did. "Andraste's ass, Anton," he breathed, running a hand through his hair. Under his armour, he was chilled with cold sweat. "You must have terrified the woman half to death."

"Oh, yes." Anton didn't mention that she hadn't reacted nearly as intensely as Cullen had. He slid onto Cullen's desk, careful to avoid the document he'd just been writing. "She confessed in front of the whole council. Aveline arrested her." As he spoke, he watched his husband, taking him by the hand and gently nudging him back into his chair.

Cullen squeezed Anton's hand, trying to reassure himself with its solid weight. His heart finally stopped pounding. "So you, what, pretended to be dead and appeared to 'haunt' her?" And he had to laugh at that. It was exactly the sort of ridiculous thing Anton would do and somehow pull off.

"More than that, it was in front of the entire council!" Anton chuckled, bringing Cullen's hand up to his lips. "You should have seen their faces! Bran strongly implied I was dead, and that he knew who to blame, and then I jumped out from between the bookcases, all lit up. You should have heard them -- actually, yes. Someone did yell something about demons. And then they blamed Merrill. That part wasn't so great."

"They thought Merrill summoned a demon?" Cullen rested his sword against the side of the desk and rubbed his chin. "Why didn't I get a runner about this?"

"Oh, because I convinced them that demanding that my husband spare my killer the depredations of my wrath wasn't going to do them any good. Really, it's a good thing we're married, you know." Anton grinned shamelessly.

"Yes, that was good foresight on our part," Cullen drawled. He tugged Anton off the desk and into his lap, something they both regretted when they remembered Cullen was wearing armour. Still, Anton didn't move, determined to ignore the ridge of metal digging into one of his finer assets. "I think you took a good ten years off my life."

"Don't be dramatic," Anton teased. "I'm sure they were only going to be a mediocre ten years."

Cullen chuckled. "Is that how this works? You scare off the uninteresting years of my life and leave me with the rest? Too bad, since marrying you means my life will be many things, but never uninteresting."

"Is that the most romantic thing you have to say to your husband who has only just returned from the dead?" Anton wrapped his arms around Cullen's shoulders.

"Don't joke, Anton. If you ever actually come back from the dead, I'm going to have to firmly pierce you with the sword you don't like, in places you wouldn't like to have it." Cullen rested his forehead against Anton's.

"Does that mean that pretending to come back from the dead gets me the sword I like in places I love to have it? That sounds like a delightful way to spend an afternoon." Anton grinned and tipped his chin up to kiss his husband.

"Did you lock the door?" Cullen mumbled into the kiss.

"Do you care?" Anton replied, mouth full of tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *coughcough* Happy Valentine's Day, Cullen! ~~I swear we didn't actually plan this, it just worked out.~~


	93. Chapter 93

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theron, Serendipity, and Jethann tell old stories and catch up on the latest gossip in the Garden of Tevinter Delights.

"But, how was I supposed to know he didn't mean it threateningly!? It sounded like a threat!" Theron held his glass out to the elf standing beside their table, in the Garden of Tevinter delights. "So I punched him!"

Jethann nearly slid out of his chair laughing. "In Denerim? Did the guard come for you?"

"Like he was going to tell a guardsman he got punched trying to have weird, barbaric sex with an elf -- and a Dalesman, too." Theron shook his head and smiled at the woman filling his glass. "Thanks, Marozia. Are you doing all right, here? You can come up the mountain with the rest of us relatively sane and reasonable people, any time."

Marozia gave him a wry look as she reached out to refill Jethann's glass, and Serendipity started to laugh.

"She's right. If this is your demonstration of 'sane and reasonable', you're doing a terrible job, Theron."

"What? I'm sure Varric has much stranger stories," Theron huffed. 

"Yes, but they're usually someone else's stories," Jethann replied. He took back his refilled glass with a gracious smile. "The strangeness slides off him. And speaking of someone else's stories, I am definitely telling that one!"

"Out of your own stories already?" Theron asked, smirking over his glass. "And here I thought you would have good ones!"

"Oh, he does," Serendipity chimed in. "He just likes to tell them over and over again and could use some new material." Jethann started to protest and Serendipity held up a finger for him to be quiet. "That was not an invitation for you to tell your latest Monsieur du Fromage story. I know you saw the man yesterday, and I hope you took that potion I gave you."

"Oh, Dips, I took it before and then I went to the Clinic, after. Are you kidding me? I'm getting too old for this shit." Jethann laughed, easily, sipping his wine.

"Says the youngest person at this table," Serendipity reminded him.

Jethann blinked. "No. There's no way. How old are you?" he asked Theron.

Theron had to think for a moment, counting on his fingers. "It's the thirty-ninth year of the Dragon, eight years after Earthquake Boy came back, nine years after the Blight, nineteen years after I left my clan, twenty-five years since they knew I wouldn't be Keeper, and thirty-five years since I was born. Give or take a few months." He shrugged.

"You're what." Jethann blinked again.

"Well, technically, still thirty-four, for a bit."

"I'm only ... not that old." Jethann burst out laughing.

"And I'm older than both of you, and still better looking." Serendipity crossed her legs and swiped a bit of cheese.

"Better with age, like wine and cheese," Theron agreed with a wink, following her lead in nabbing a slice of cheese. Serendipity clinked her glass against his.

"So how is Earthquake Boy, since you mentioned him?" Jethann asked, sitting back in his seat, wine glass dangling from his fingertips. "Or are you going to tell me you came all the way to town just to have wine and cheese with us?"

"Oh, I have plenty of reasons to see the city," Theron countered. "Friends in the Alienage, shopping... But, to answer your question, he is well. Though I'm sure he wouldn't mind if you stopped by to ask after his health in person." He arched an eyebrow suggestively.

"Were you and that delicious husband of his not thorough enough on your own, then?" Jethann teased.

"Oh, we're thorough, but I think you know how he gets. There's no such thing as enough, until it's way too much, and then he still wants more." Theron laughed and shook his head.

"And speaking of too much, that party before his wedding. All three of us, and the healer checking on him, the whole time! And his brother checking on him, though I've never seen someone ... 'checking' walk out looking that sweaty and out of breath." Jethann raised an eyebrow at Theron. "Something interesting is going on, there."

"What?" Theron laughed harder. "With Cormac? Don't be ridiculous. The first time we ever--" He was laughing so hard, he couldn't speak, for a bit. "Things got a little wild. Earthquakes. You know what he's like. And Cormac kicked open the door of my aravel, like he was the hand of Elgar'nan, reaching down for vengeance. What was I doing to his brother, and on and on. I mean, I'd like to think it was obvious what I was doing to his brother. And that the brother in question greatly enjoyed the experience of my fine Dalish c...ulture." Theron looked a little smug, at that. "But, Cormac was the angry father in every sacred virgin story, not the jealous lover in a story of betrayal. I'm a teller of tales -- I can tell the difference."

"Are you sure you weren't, ah, distracted?" Jethann asked around a laugh. "I'm not sure 'fatherly' is how I would describe his relationship with his brother."

"In fairness, a tree had just fallen on our aravel," Theron replied, "but I am still sure. They're just close. From what I can tell, they always have been."

Jethann hummed as though not quite convinced. He cut a look in Serendipity's direction. "What do you think, Dips? You're closer to the viscount. Has he implied anything something scandalous was going on?"

"He has implied many scandalous things, but not that," Serendipity said. "There was a party, however... You remember when their mother used to throw the famous Hawke parties? Not quite as fun as Tony's parties, but they still had their own excitement."

"Oh yes, back when I wasn't invited," Jethann drawled. "Now stop rubbing my face in it and tell me what happened at that party."

"Your Earthquake Boy got a little too drunk and kissed his brother in a distinctly unbrotherly fashion." She paused to cackle and to take a sip of wine. She remembered talking to a sulking Fenris up on the balcony and could still remember the look on his face. "That said, rumour has it that he flirted with Anders and potentially even with Cullen at the same party, so I'm inclined to blame the drink, more than anything."

"I've heard he may have done much more than just flirted with Cullen," Theron added, with a slight smile. "No one's come out and said it, but some things have been suggested, and I know that look he gets when he's not talking about something."

"The Knight-Commander of Kirkwall and a mage?" Serendipity clutched at the amulet she wore. "Scandalous!"

"Which is why you're not going to say anything about it. We like the Knight-Commander and we like his husband even more," Jethann reminded her.

"Well, no, I'm not going to say anything, but just think of it! And those two brothers sharing, of all of them. That I wouldn't have thought of." The corner of Serendipity's mouth tipped up.

"Could have been even more scandalous. It could've been Carver," Jethann pointed out.

"Carver's a wet noodle," Serendipity protested. "That's not even possible, with Carver."

"The wet noodle is engaged to an elven mage," Theron reminded her. "He's strangely popular in the Alienage."

"Maybe, but not for his noodle, I imagine," Jethann drawled.

"I don't know. Merrill seems to be a great fan of his noodle." Theron smirked. "Though she has another name for it."

Jethann held up a hand, expression pained. "I don't need to know. I've had enough clients tell me the names, nicknames, and occasional titles of their noodles."

Serendipity arched an eyebrow. "Titles?"

"Titles," Jethann assured her. "Surprisingly, Comte is the highest rank I've heard. You'd think if you were to make up a title for your noodle, you'd at least aim higher."

"Well, you have to show _some_ humility," Theron pointed out. "I can't just go around introducing people to the emperor in my trousers."

"Not with that attitude," Serendipity said.

"Gyldenpyntel, the emperor of all he surveys, gazing out from the comfort of my smalls." Jethann cackled and adjusted his trousers, ostentatiously.

"All hail Emperor Gyldenpyntel!" Theron upended his cup over Jethann's lap, splashing wine over the brown leather. "An Antivan welcome for the newly crowned overlord of Kirkwallian trousers!"

Jethann leapt to his feet, cursing and laughing, and accepted the napkin Marozia offered. "Well, I won't say he's been crowned yet. Why, are you offering?"

"Not for what you charge," Theron shot back.

"Oh, all right then, what was the Elven Assblade of Denerim getting, then?" Jethann huffed, blotting at the spots the wine hadn't simply run off of. "You can't have been charging much less!"

"I wasn't charging!" Theron laughed. "They just assumed, because I was an elf, that I was supposed to be paid!"

Serendipity stared. "They just... paid you because you were an elf? That's the opposite of how being an elf usually goes."

"I don't know what went through their heads. I didn't even know they were paying me until Kalli explained it. I thought I was just that good, and they were giving me gifts! And then she told me they thought I was a prostitute." Theron shrugged. "Didn't slow me down at all, of course. I was on a quest to discover the secret of shemlen earthquakes!"

"Why would you slow down?" Jethann asked, trying and failing to fight back laughter. "You were being paid to do something you enjoyed! Or someones, anyway."

"Did you honestly think the earthquakes were a human thing?" Serendipity asked. "How would they build anything if every human made the earth shake?" The wine glass distorted the sound of her chuckle, and Theron nodded, letting the two of them have their laugh.

"I didn't know any shemlen or shemlen cities!" Theron protested. "Except for Artemis, and his earthquakes were fairly consistent." He said this as though it were a badge of honour, straightening in his seat and lifting his chin.

"Didn't you meet his brother at the same time?" Serendipity pointed out.

Theron's eyes crossed. "Yes, but I wasn't about to experiment on him to compare."

"He seems like he'd at least be considerate," Jethann observed, sipping his wine.

"He's also not interested in elves -- at least not like that." Serendipity crossed her legs and leaned forward. "He's interested in the social and religious parts of elven culture."

"Well, Artemis is definitely interested in my c...ulture." Theron grinned. "Cormac, though... I think Fenris said it best. A magical bear. I'm not getting bears anywhere near my c...ulture, if I can help it."

"Oh, but the halla's all right?" Jethann teased, and Theron gave him a hard look.

"Where did you even hear that?"

"Oh, you know, we were arranging for some donations to the Alienage, and Junar was down, talking to Merrill about you. He's got a lot of words for you and I don't think any of them would be nice, even if you took them completely out of context." Jethann fanned himself with one hand.

"He called you a halla-fucker," Serendipity filled in, with a sympathetic look. "We had to ask."

Behind them, Marozia blinked a few times but otherwise gave no indication she was listening.

Theron groaned, letting his head roll back against the back of his chair. "Just don't say that in front of Artemis. It's funny when he gets flustered and his voice gets high and squeaky, but that's also when the not fun earthquakes happen. There are easier and better ways to get earthquakes."


	94. Chapter 94

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric returns from his holiday in Antiva and stops to chat with the elves in his garden.

Jethann was still weighing the pros and cons of each kind of earthquake when another voice joined the conversation.

"I was going to ask what you three were gossiping about, but between the mention of 'earthquakes' and 'hallas', I think I can make a guess. Should I be writing this down?"

"Varric!" Serendipity crowed. Half-standing, she waved him over, gesturing towards an empty seat. They had no idea how long the dwarf had been standing in the doorway, but he looked newly arrived, tanned and tired but all smiles. "Take a seat, take some wine, and, yes, take some notes. Theron has been in rare form today, and you missed it!"

"Well, I'd hate to miss anything actually funny from him." Varric chuckled and lowered himself stiffly into the chair.

"How was Antiva?" Jethann asked, with a wide smile. "You look like you've seen a lot of the beach!"

"Ah, you know how it is, one thing leads to another, and four drinks later, we're in Qarinus, visiting my cousin. They've got some lovely beaches up north. Nice place." Varric chuckled again and stretched his legs.

"You've been gone almost a year, and we're supposed to believe you've been on the beach in Tevinter, this whole time?" Theron snorted. "Come on, where's the new book?"

"Ask that kraken off the coast of Seheron," Varric muttered. "You wouldn't believe that thing. Right through the window, and there went my dinner, my manuscripts, my razor..." He rubbed his neck, thoughtfully. "Bought a new razor in Carastes, on the way back down."

"A kraken ate your entire year's worth of work." Jethann raised an eyebrow. "Come on, Varric. We know you better than that. How much of it had you already sent to your publisher?"

"Fine, fine, it just got the last chapter of Swords and Shields and the first few chapters of something else I was working on. Action, adventure, the lost heir to a magical treasure to unlock the secrets of the ancient dragons. The kraken was right about Swords and Shields, though." Varric shook his head. "I gotta stop that one. It's terrible."

"Or maybe the kraken just happens to be a fan," Serendipity suggested, passing the plate of cheese to Varric. "It couldn't wait to read more and snatched up the next chapter!"

"Most fans know to stop at asking for an autograph," Varric sighed. He plucked up a few slices of cheese with a grateful nod. "It didn't even ask, which, considering it could have provided the ink, was kind of rude. So." He paused to chew. "I'm gone for a year, and the viscount hasn't destroyed the city? Not even a little?"

Jethann shrugged one shoulder. "This is about as not disastrous as Kirkwall as been. Hate to break it to you."

"Damn. Looks like I owe Corff some money."

"And you missed Bethany's wedding, and we're not going to tell you about it," Serendipity huffed, sliding another sliver of cheese out of the pile.

"Because none of us were invited," Jethann clarified.

"We could've gone," Theron said. "I heard most of the Orlesians didn't show up and an elf from the Crows slipped in through the window. It's not like anyone would've noticed us."

"It's not like anyone would have paid us, either. Maybe you can afford to just run off on holiday, but some of us work for a living." Jethann shoved Theron's knee with his foot. "And who did you hear from anyway?"

"Who do you think?" Serendipity interrupted. "He's in town, isn't he?"

"So Sebastian finally got up the stones to marry her?" Varric asked. "Good for him."

"He's a little slow, but he got there in the end," Serendipity agreed.

"Honestly, even with the Crow, it sounds tame for a Hawke wedding," Varric replied. "What's the point if no magisters are set on fire and the groom doesn't swing down from the balcony? Sebastian _didn't_ swing down from the balcony, right?"

Jethann and Serendipity looked at Theron, who shrugged. "I'm sure we'd all know about it if he had."

"Damn. That would have made a great story." Varric took a sip and then another, taking a moment to appreciate the wine. 

"So, are we going to hear the details of this extravagant journey of yours," Serendipity asked, "or are you leaving us to fill in the blanks on our own?"

"Maybe one day, I'll write a book." Varric shrugged. His face was not that of a man who'd had a pleasant holiday on the northern shores. "I went to a charming party in Qarinus, though. Magisters, wall to wall. Good wine, nice hors d'oeuvres. And then this guy from nowhere that everyone thought might be the new Archon, one day, showed up and a fight broke out. That was shit. And really, that might've been the most pleasant evening I had, since we got to Antiva."

"That doesn't sound much like a holiday, Varric," Jethann teased, nudging him with one foot.

"I was trying to do a favour for a friend. Just a quick trip to Antiva, maybe a prison break, and we'd be done. But, no. Why is no one ever where they're supposed to be? And then there were witches and dragons and angry magisters and freaky magic shit, when all I signed on for was to piss off a few Crows. I mean, we did that too." Varric groaned and leaned back in the chair. "Would you get us another bottle, Marozia? Maybe another three bottles?"

"You have to tell us all about it," Serendipity insisted, leaning closer to Varric.

"I'll write an epic and send it to Earthquake Boy's cousin. They'll sing it in the halls of Orzammar. A bold dwarven adventurer's journey to piss off some Crows, piss off some Magisters, and somehow not get eaten by dragons." Theron grinned and nearly poured wine down his face when he couldn't stop smiling long enough to drink.

Somewhere between laughing and taking a drink, Jethann had a realisation. He pointed at Varric, waiting to finish his sip of wine before speaking. "It all makes sense now. Kirkwall was a clusterfuck for years. You leave, and while you're gone, nothing ends up on fire, but where you are, everything goes insane."

"Are you saying I bring the party?" Varric asked drily. Instead of pouring him another drink, Marozia handed him a bottle and set two more off to the side. "Thank you, Marozia. You're my hero."

"That, and maybe you're cursed," Jethann suggested with a shrug. "If something ends up on fire over the next few days, we'll know."

"Are you volunteering to be that something?" Serendipity asked with a mischievous smirk.

"Now, now, I knew the man who brought fire to Kirkwall, and it's not me." Varric chuckled. "He also brought fire to a wedding and to an old fortress out in the Vimmarks. Awful lot of fire in one skinny mage."

Jethann's eyes widened and he shot a look at Theron.

"Wrong mage," Theron assured him. "Right wedding, though. Have you ever seen a magister melt?"

"That is not something I want to think about while there's still food on the table," Jethann retorted, eyeing the cheese suspiciously.

"Speaking of fire, nobody's burned down the Gazette while I was gone, have they?" Varric's voice was tight, like he intended humour, but hadn't quite made it.

"I've been reading it every week," Serendipity assured him. "Though I do wonder at the quality of Page Six..."

"They're all sent in by the citizens of Kirkwall. We just edit for spelling and punctuation." Varric shrugged. "Are you telling me worse things have run than Queen Admiral Jinglebutt was sending in, because that I'd have to see."

"If you mean Isabela, I think last week's might have been hers. That story sounded a little too familiar..." Theron's shoulders followed his eyebrows up.

Varric barked a laugh. "Oh, then I have to read it."

"I recommend finishing the bottle before you do," Jethann suggested. "It might help numb the pain of her word choices."

"What do you take me for?" Varric asked, pressing a hand over his heart. "I may edit sober, but it's bad writing that leads me to drink. Page Six is best paired with a bottle of whatever you have on hand, and luckily, in my hand, there is a bottle." He saluted the three of them with his bottle and took a long drink. "So, what were these great stories Theron was telling?"


	95. (Summer 9:39)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samson and Alain debate whether to pursue the last of the phylacteries into a cursed and/or haunted Tevinter ruin in northern Orlais.

The wind was cold, which would've seemed strange to anyone, at this time of year, if they weren't Samson. He'd been cold since they'd come south, and it would take more than summer to shake it. He pulled the heavy cloak around himself more tightly and ran a hand through his hair, hoping no more of it would fall out. He was long past hoping Alain wouldn't notice.

"Samson, are you sure you're all right?" Alain handed him a warmed canteen of tea.

"I'll make it home. Don't worry. You won't have to explain to Cullen." Samson could almost hear his cheeks creak, as he tried to smile. "I'll explain it myself. I've just caught some foul southern sickness. The clinic can make it go away. We just have to get home."

He was lying and he knew it. It was the lyrium catching up with him. All those years on garbage dwarf dust, down by the docks. Even the good stuff couldn't save him, now.

"I'm not worried about telling Cullen. I'm worried about you dying!" Alain looked terribly concerned, if a bit blurry.

"I told you. I'm just cold. It's some bullshit sickness from all this cold and wet and dogshit," Samson muttered.

"We're in Orlais," Alain reminded him.

"Dog. Shit." Samson insisted. "Or what do we say here, le poo de arf arf?"

Samson rubbed his eyes. He could hear Alain sigh and didn't need to look at him to know that Alain was looking at him with wide, pathetic eyes. "Stop it. I'm not dying, and I'm sure as shit not dying in _Orlais_." He gestured at the phylactery tied to Alain's belt. "So what's the damn thing say, then? Are we getting close, or should we go back to chasing our own asses?"

Alain fiddled with the phylactery, all but willing it to glow brighter. "We're closer than we were yesterday. I think. It's... a bit hard to tell. It's not getting dimmer, anyway, so we're going in the right direction."

The 'right direction' just happened to be away from civilisation and a hot meal, and the trees amid the fog didn't look welcoming. Alain continued to fidget with the phylactery, turning it over in his hands and pretending not to be watching Samson out of the corner of his eye.

"Great," Samson mumbled, rubbing his eyes again. "Let's--"

"Maybe we should take a break," Alain tried again. "Find a town. Rest a bit. At least until the fog lifts."

"Honestly, if this prick is all the way out in west Val de Buttfuck, and I'm pretty sure there aren't even towns out there, he's probably a lot safer than he'd be with us. Especially after that shit in Val Royeaux. How many did we lose, there?" Samson's hands ached around the warm canteen.

"Enough," Alain replied. The answer was actually eight, but he didn't want to think too hard about it. A rebellion, everyone said. The mages had to be put down, for the good of the nation. But, they'd both seen what had happened in Kirkwall, and that answer didn't sit right, at all.

"So, let's leave the Isolationist to his isolation. Do we have anything closer to civilisation?" Samson sighed and stiffened his back, trying to hold off the shakes he could feel starting in his knee.

"There's that weird one in Antiva that we couldn't make sense of. I don't know if that's still in Antiva, though." Alain shrugged. "We've made contact with all the other survivors."

"And half of them told us to shove it up our asses." Samson squinted into the fog. "I don't really want to walk into some Isolationist apostate's barriers and hexes. And I sure as shit don't want to do it up a mountain."

"They said in Ghislain that there's an ancient Tevinter fortress up there, but nobody goes there, because it's haunted." Alain shrugged again. "If it's not ghosts, it's demons, and there's only two of us."

Samson groaned. "Of course it's demons. It's always demons. Why does everything Tevinter have to be full of demons?" Just the thought of wielding his sword was exhausting, but it was his job to watch Alain's back. As creaky as his hands felt, Samson finally had to admit to himself that that might not be a job he could do much longer.

"There's only two of us," Alain said again. "That's really not the sort of thing we should be walking into alone."

"Right," said Samson, making an executive decision. "Our mystery mage friend wins this round of hide-and-seek. I'd congratulate him, but I'd have to fucking find him first." He took a sip of his tea, relishing the warm line it drew down his throat and thanking the Maker that heat magic existed.

"So, do you want to go back to Kirkwall and get that looked at?" Alain asked, trying not to look as hopeful as he felt.

"Well, nobody else is going to tell Cullen if we die out here, under a horde of Tevinter demons. You know, when I retire, maybe I'll go north. Rivain or Antiva or something. Tevinter weather without the Tevinter." Samson hook his head and breathed on his hands. "Straight down the Imperial Highway, out of Val Chevin, and we can be in Kirkwall in three days. Four days, and we could probably be in Antiva. Except there's no clinic in Antiva and there's no Knight-Captain we're supposed to report back to. Commander. Knight -Commander. How is he the Commander? Is he even thirty?"

"I never thought to ask," Alain admitted, turning back toward the road with a sigh of relief. "Does it matter? He's holding his own against the Divine. And I'm sure of it because we're in Orlais. We'd have heard if there was an Exalted March."

"We're going to get home just in time for it. You just watch," Samson muttered, following Alain back toward civilisation.


	96. Chapter 96

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra is still looking for Varric. Absolutely no one is assisting in this quest. Samson and Alain return to Kirkwall.

In the hot Antivan sun, Cassandra refused to believe the trail had gone cold.

"You honestly expect me to believe that you know nothing of his whereabouts?" she asked, wiping the sweat from her brow and hoping she sounded more irritated than desperate. "He killed your patriarch. I'd assume you'd want revenge."

Orlanda Valisti scoffed, eyeing Cassandra coolly. She hadn't invited Cassandra inside, and she lingered in the doorway with one hand on the door. "No one is paying us for revenge. If you're so desperate to find this dwarf, you should ask Claudio yourself. You're Nevarran, aren't you? Bother the dead with your questions."

Cassandra made a disgusted noise, and Orlanda took advantage of the slight distraction to slam the door on her. And then Cassandra swore, bitterly and at length. At least until the black feather fluttered down from above. Right. _Crows_. The Antivan kind. Was this a warning? She turned it over in her hand as she made her way back toward the compound's gate. No, this was too long to be a crow's feather.

The raucous shouting of a raven caught her ear, and she followed the sound and the bird to a carriage stop in front of the next building up the road. The raven hopped insistently, until she untied the message bound to its leg.

_Seeker, you are wasting time in Antiva. He has returned home._

Cassandra stared at the note a moment longer before she crumpled it. "I will kill that dwarf."

* * *

Heavy gauntleted fists clanked onto the edge of Aveline's desk, and two guards rushed in after the woman with the eye emblazoned on the front of her armour.

"Where is the dwarf?" the woman demanded, in a heavy Nevarran accent.

"You can't just push your way in here--" one of the guards started, but Aveline waved her down. Aveline would have to tighten up the response to unexpected people appearing in the guard hall, but the lack of response had served her well, when Anton was still living in Lowtown.

"There are hundreds of dwarves in a city this size. 'The' dwarf is not good enough for me to determine who you are looking for." Aveline stood from behind her desk, leading with her shoulders as she unfolded from the chair. Varric always said it made her look intimidating.

"The dwarf responsible for murdering the patriarch of the Valisti family! Where is Varric Tethras?" One gauntleted fist slammed into the edge of the desk, again.

Aveline tightened her grip around the other edge of the desk and fought back the desire to shove that fist back. The woman was going to leave a dent at this rate.

"I don't know any Valisti," Aveline said, keeping her expression neutral. "Was he in Kirkwall?"

"No, but--"

"Then he and his family are no concern of mine. As for Varric, I haven't seen him for months. You're barking up the wrong tree." For all her nonchalance, she hoped Varric hadn't caused an international incident while he was abroad, or she would have to kill the dwarf herself.

Cassandra squared her jaw and her shoulders, nostrils flaring with the effort of reining in her temper. "I think you are lying. He is a friend of yours, and you're trying to protect him."

"Varric doesn't need my protecting," Aveline replied. "He knows enough to clean up his own mess."

"Find him," the woman demanded, her eyes nearly glowing in their intensity.

"If he breaks a law in Kirkwall, I'll do just that," Aveline drawled, gesturing for the guards to remove the guest from her office. Maybe she needed a gate at the bottom of the stairs...

The woman made a disgusted noise and stormed out, before either guard could lay a hand on her.

* * *

* * *

Even with Alain by his side, making his way through the docks sent a chill down Samson's spine. He knew every sound, every step, every scent. Cold sweat pooled in his palms as he remembered that alley or this post, and how the craving crawled through his blood. Kirkwall was fine, but he'd be better if he never had to set foot on the docks again.

"Do you want to stop at the clinic, here, before we go across to see Cullen?" Alain asked, and Samson shook his head.

"No, no. Cullen can send for someone later. I don't want to spend three hours sitting in a crowd of drunken sailors with black eyes and broken arms just to get a healing potion. Everything that's in that clinic started in the Gallows anyway." Samson made his way stiffly down to the ferry at the far end, away from most of the worst memories, and closer to the stairs.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Alain asked, stupidly.

"Kid, if I was all right, I'd be standing up straight, and my sausage and eggs wouldn't be marinating in week-old freezing sweat. No, I'm not all right, but I'm almost home, and then I can take something for it." Samson held out a few coins in his damp and greasy hand, but the ferryman pointed at the Sword of Mercy on his armour and waved them away.

Alain hovered as Samson climbed into the ferry, hands ready to catch him if he stumbled but knowing that he would probably be barked at for the help. Samson was in pain. Alain could forgive his snappishness.

The ferry ride was short, but it seemed to take forever as Alain watched Samson shiver. On the other side were white walls he had come to see as home. And that was something Alain had never thought he would feel: relief at the sight of the Gallows, of all places.

"Home, sweet home," Samson muttered as he climbed out of the ferry, moving like an old man. Again, Alain hovered, but Samson remained upright, if pale.

"Stop fussing. I know how to walk. I've had some practice, you know."

He'd also had some practice falling down after a few drinks, but Alain politely refrained from saying so.

In the courtyard, Keran was the first to spot them. "Alain?" he called out as he approached. "Welcome back! I..." He paused, squinting at Samson. "Knight-Corporal?"

Keran didn't quite rein in his surprise, and Samson rolled his eyes. "Yes, I know, I look like shit. It's good to see you too, Keran."

"Get the Commander," Alain said. "Hello. I missed you. Get the Commander."

Alain turned around and shouted behind him. "Carver, get Cullen! They're home!"

"Who's home?" Carver yelled back. "Why do I ca--" He turned around and squinted toward Keran. "Maker's holy ass on a dragon. That you, Ser Samson?"

"No, it's the Queen of fucking Ferelden," Samson barked, leaning more heavily on Alain, as the sun got brighter and the world got colder. "And get a healer. I feel like I've been swallowed by a gurgut and shit out whole."

"Well, sit down, you damnable idiot," Carver snapped, jogging toward the stairs.

"I'm not the one who joined the Order while living with three mages," Samson shot back, before he sank down on a bench at the edge of the practise field. "It's not that serious," he muttered to the mages hovering over him. "I'm just an old man."

"Younger than Meredith," Alain teased him, sitting to his side and shrugging at Keran. "It's been a long journey."

"Did you have to go very far?" Keran asked, knowing the question was stupid as it left his mouth.

The look Samson gave him said he thought it was a stupid question too. "We ended up in Orlais. That's far enough. More than far enough."

"We travelled all over," Alain added. "Met with almost all the mages who left."

Samson grunted. "And only half of them told us to sod off."

Keran was nodding before Samson had finished speaking. "Yes, I know. There's been a steady trickle of mages coming in, all saying you two sent them. It's impressive, really. No wonder you two are exhausted."

"Ah. Good to know the blighters found their way back on their own." Though Samson grumbled, something eased in the set of his shoulders. "Now I know how a shepherd feels, running around after lost sheep. Except the sheep have magic and hate you."

"Well, most of them didn't hate us when we told them why we were there!" Alain protested. "But, that did involve getting close enough to tell them, and let me tell you, an Isolationist stormbringer is not that easy to get close to."

"Are _you_ all right?" Keran asked, crouching to get a better look at Alain's face. "He's obviously not, but ... New scars in interesting places? Tales of terror to tell your lady-friends?"

Alain laughed and looked away. "Well, I didn't lose anything important! Really, though, I'm fine. The worst thing that happened was I almost got spit on by a wyvern. Those things are poisonous; did you know that?"

"Venomous," Keran corrected, reflexively. "I mean, you can eat them, once you kill them, right?"

Alain waved a hand. "You know what I mean."

"Maker, I didn't think I'd see you two again." Keran almost reached out, but stopped his hands and rested them on his thighs. "I'm very glad you didn't get spit on by a wyvern or hit by lightning."

"We did get hit by lightning," Samson grumbled. "And fire, and ice, and bolts from the furthest reaches of the Fade. I had to smite some people."

"That always made things harder." Alain sighed and rubbed his face. "But, on the other hand, it's probably why we survived."

"The perks of being a templar," Samson said with a tired bitterness. He looked up at the sound of footsteps and the clank of armour and saw Cullen heading their way, taking the steps two at a time. "Speaking of... hello, Knight-Commander." He gave Cullen a tired salute as Alain stood to greet him. "I hope you don't mind if I stay sitting."

Cullen waved the comment aside as looked Samson over. And, really, Samson would have to have a word with the man about his Diamondback face. His eyes still gave away too much. "No need to stand. Same goes for you, Alain." Hesitantly, Alain sank back to the bench, and, leaning in, Cullen added, "Carver is collecting a healer as we speak. Do you think you could make the walk inside? It's drier, at least, and more comfortable."

"As long as you don't want me to walk back to Ferelden, I'm sure it's not going to kill me." Samson offered a lopsided sneer and a dismissive snort.

Cullen whistled and waved to a mage on the other side of the courtyard. "Can you give me a hand over here, Sheena?"

Sheena gave a quick kiss to the woman she was talking to, then headed over to see what Cullen needed.

"Can you get Ser Samson to my quarters, please? He's not feeling quite himself."

Sheena squinted, lips puckering in contemplation. "Can you afford to replace the bench?"

"I'm more concerned about Ser Samson than the bench."

"Welcome home, ser," Sheena said, with a smile, cracking her knuckles. "Hold onto him, Alain."


	97. Chapter 97

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are no healers in Kirkwall, no proper healers anyway, so Merrill comes to check on Samson.

Samson looked confused until the spell hit him, and the bench hurtled toward the stairs, skating up them in defiance of the general laws of the universe. "No, no, no, no -- What!?"

"Force magic." Alain patted the arm he had in a death grip. "Just hold on to the seat, and we'll be there in less time than it would take _you_ to walk."

"I'm flying through the Gallows on a bench. I'm sure the time it takes to walk is the least of my worries, right now. I can still walk, you know. I've got a sickness, not a broken leg!" The shouting continued as Sheena, Cullen, and Keran followed the bench through the halls.

Samson's shouting didn't stop even when the bench did, but Cullen took that as a good sign. 

"If you're trying to speed up my death, there are easier ways!" Samson called over his shoulder in Cullen's direction.

"You're not dying," Cullen said, clapping Samson on the shoulder. He spoke with an authority he did not feel. "And you got here safe enough, didn't you?"

"Assuming my heart doesn't give out," Samson muttered, clutching his chest dramatically.

"Now you really sound like an old man," Alain teased. "Come on." He helped Samson off the bench and helped him shuffle towards the bed. Cullen stepped forward to assist them, but Samson waved him away.

"As you can see, my legs still work," Samson groused.

"Well, I hope so." Cullen gave him a wry look. "That's my bed you're sitting on."

"Your bed's on the other side of Hightown and has the viscount in it." Samson snorted and hefted his legs onto the bed, crossing his muddy boots on Cullen's pillow.

Cullen sighed. "I deserve that, don't I?"

"You might've sent someone a little younger," Samson grumbled.

"I didn't want someone younger. I didn't trust someone who wasn't you to be able to do this right." Cullen rubbed his face and sighed, as Merrill appeared behind him in the doorway.

"Cullen? It sounded serious. I came as quickly as I could."

Cullen turned around to see Carver standing behind her, and shot him a confused look.

"You know we don't have any proper healers, since Anders left." Carver shrugged. "She's... you know what she does. And some things can be healed with that, too."

"We stopped and got some potions from downstairs, too. I've got a detoxification and a healing potion you should drink first." Merrill edged around Cullen and held the bottles out to Samson.

Cullen didn't look terribly pleased, but he stayed out of Merrill's way and hoped she didn't resort to blood magic. He couldn't turn a blind eye to that, especially with so many others in the room.

Speaking of... "Thank you, Sheena, Keran," he said nodding to each in turn. "We can take it from here."

Sheena left with a wave and cheerful smile, while Keran lingered. "If there's anything I can do... well. You know. Feel better, Samson."

Samson grunted acknowledgement around a healing potion. He grimaced and handed back the empty flask. "You'd think they could add something to improve the taste," he muttered.

"Now you're just looking for things to whine about," Cullen sighed, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. "Raleigh, what's going on?"

"I'm just old." Samson crossed his arms. "And I don't think Orlesian food agrees with me."

"And we both know that's bullshit, so why don't you try again?" Cullen reached around Alain to drag out the stiff chair from his writing table, and sit beside the bed.

"I don't know. I don't think I'm getting any crazier, but I can't see so good and everything hurts. It's just a fever. A little healing and some good Kirkwall air, right?" Samson didn't really want to admit what he was afraid of -- that this was the lyrium finally catching up.

Cullen looked up at Alain, inquisitively.

"He snores like sawing wood in a canyon, but he's not irrational. Well, not more irrational than someone who's not sleeping right. And I did have to read the map, most of the time." Alain shrugged. "I think he's right. I think he's just caught something. The weird thing is that we've been sharing a room, and I haven't caught it."

"Samson, would you do something for me?" Merrill held out one of her hands. "Would you give me just a tiny drop of your blood from your finger? It's not blood magic, it's healing. I just want to make sure there's not bad things in it. Like someone else's magic. You have a lot of lyrium in you, after all these years..."

"Sounds like blood magic," Samson muttered. "Can you trust her?" he asked Cullen. "Can you really trust her?"

"Carver, can I get a drop of yours, as well, to compare?" Merrill asked, and Carver drew his dagger and nicked the back of his hand.

"She does this every time I get sick, just to make sure it's not blood magic or poison," Carver assured Cullen and Samson. "She's not a proper healer, but she can tell if something's wrong with your blood."

Cullen rubbed his forehead, the skin tight around his eyes. "Do what you have to do," he said, careful not to look at the blood beading along the back of Carver's hand. He didn't approve of this -- he couldn't -- but they didn't have many options.

Merrill drew her own dagger and handed it, hilt first, to Samson. "I only need a drop," she assured him, her green eyes wide and earnest.

Samson glanced at Cullen and, heavy with reluctance, took the dagger. He didn't flinch when he pricked the tip of his finger. "I hope you know what you're doing," he muttered, eyes on the blood he squeezed out of his finger. He wasn't sure whom he was addressing. Possibly everyone in the room.

"I do," Merrill replied. She stretched out a hand to Samson. "This will only take a moment."

When she murmured a few words, Samson expected something dramatic, that his blood would glow or boil or something. That it didn't was almost anticlimactic.

Merrill noticed his surprise, much more obvious in his exhausted face than it would normally be. "I told you. It isn't blood magic. Blood magic uses blood to make magic. I'm just using magic to look at blood." She held up one hand and then the other. "This is Carver's blood. As far as I can tell, it's pretty normal, for a templar. It's very alive and it takes good care of him. Just look at the colour! And there's a little bit of lyrium in it. Actually, everyone has a little bit of lyrium, but templars have a lot more. It's still only a little bit, though." Nodding to the other hand, she started again. "This is Ser Samson's blood. It's a little darker and not as happy. He's right -- he has got a sickness, but it's not a bad one. It's not something that should do this. And the lyrium is there -- more of it than Carver has, but I don't think it's wrong for a templar of his age. At least, a templar of what I think his age must be."

"Yes, yes, I'm old," Samson muttered. "Get on with it."

"What's strange is that it's making little tiny rocks. And it's not just lyrium, but I don't know a lot about rocks, so I don't know what the rest of that is." Merrill shrugged. "I do wish Anders was here. He'd know what to do with that. So, you're sick and you have little rocks in your blood, and your blood isn't happy about those little rocks. I bet your eyes aren't, either. It looks like some kind of reaction to the lyrium, but I'm not a healer and I don't know very many older templars, so I don't know if that's normal."

Samson blinked at her and at his blood. "There's... rocks... in my blood?" He huffed a dry, humourless laugh. "No, I think it's safe to say this isn't normal." He tried to picture it, tiny rocks in his veins, and he wondered if that was why his limbs felt so heavy now. "That is... of course it's the lyrium. It always comes back to the lyrium, doesn't it?"

No one else joined in Samson's bitter laughter. Cullen wiped a hand over his face and addressed Merrill. 

"We need to write to another Circle and ask them about this," he said. "Ask the templars if this is something they have encountered before, and ask the healers if they could help. I might need your help explaining the situation."

"Of course," Merrill readily agreed.


	98. Chapter 98

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra and Cullen talk about the Chantry -- both the institution and the building going up in Kirkwall. Artemis gets an unexpected letter. Messages have started to come back from other circles in regard to Samson's condition.

One day, there would be a grand structure here, Cassandra thought, looking up at the tremendous scaffolds above the newly-finished roof of the cellars. Not just some refinished Tevinter excess, but a new building constructed in the Maker's name by the hands of his people. On the other hand, as she'd been shouting at the foreman, just moments ago, it would have been finished already, if they'd hired on the crew from the Sundermount project. But, the foreman refused to work with anything but humans, and more than that, almost entirely Orlesians. More money was going into housing the crew, Cassandra thought, than into actually constructing the building, and the city was laughing about it, as their roads were straightened and repaired and their buildings were strengthened and re-settled, and the chantry continued to tower over them, an empty frame.

She heard footsteps behind her. "I mean it! If you won't allow the mages, at least bring in the dwarves! I will have Her Holiness send a letter if I must!"

"I see you're about as enthused with this building as I am," Cullen drawled, pointing up to a ledge high up on the scaffolding. "My husband was nearly assassinated, from right there. And I keep telling myself it's still there, because it's necessary, because the work is ongoing, but it's like this man has never handled a project before. He doesn't order the stone cut for the next part until he runs out."

"Such is the Orlesian way, I suspect," Cassandra grumbled. "I apologise. I expected -- Well, you can tell who I expected."

"Had a few disagreements with the foreman already?" Cullen drawled, amusement pulling at his lips.

Cassandra scoffed. "'Already' is not a word I would use on this project, except to say that I am already vexed by the incompetence. I can understand the distrust of mages, but this is just ridiculous."

"I agree, but it's their project." Hands folded behind his back, Cullen shrugged his shoulders. "If they want to refuse help, it's their right. Even if it means we have to stare at this unfinished building while we rebuild Kirkwall around it."

"Which might very well be the case, at this rate," Cassandra muttered. "It is a travesty."

"Did you mean it? About the letter from the Divine?" Cullen asked, curiously.

"I don't know. I don't mean to bother her with foolish things like this, but if Roderick can hire nothing but incompetents, I may need to." Cassandra shook her head and made a disgusted noise. "It would not be the first time the Divine has gotten involved in business proceedings in Kirkwall, but at least this time, it is the Chantry's money she would be protecting."

"You've heard about my husband's research, then." It wasn't a question.

"I knew Divine Beatrix," Cassandra began and then flipped her hand dismissively and shook her head to clear it. "She was a competent leader, a cunning woman, and yes, a friend of the Emperor. But, you understand, the Divine is not just a title, it is an office. A large office. Many people are her hands and her scribes. Many missives never meet her, because they are simple requests for information or praise or prayers. The funding for this construction is handled through the office of the Divine, but I doubt Justinia, herself, has seen the figures."

"So, you're saying Beatrix may not have been involved in the deaths of Commander Guylian and Viscount Perrin?" Cullen sounded somewhat unconvinced, but he could recall Anton talking about the ways Mother Petrice had misused Grand Cleric Elthina's seal, to start a war with the Qunari.

"I was not there," Cassandra said carefully, "but neither was your husband. It is a possibility, and now we have no way of knowing. Regardless, Divine Justinia has no such designs at the present, which might, I hope, help you sleep better at night." She didn't quite smile, but there was amusement in her eyes.

Cullen laughed uneasily and pretended to watch the builders at work. "Oh good. I do have the occasional nightmares of an Exalted March hanging over my head." His smile was a bit too wide, a bit too nervous.

Cassandra chuckled. "It is a fear that will keep you in line, Commander."

"Fear is a terrible tool for control," Cullen retorted, gauntlets clattering as he clenched his fists. "Fear leads directly to rebellion -- more than that, to revolt! A third of my life was lived in fear, and it did not make a better man of me. It did not make better men or elves of any of the mages in the Gallows, either, not my fear or theirs. Do not think I'll be so easily pushed, now." His eyes remained fixed on the scaffolding, but his awareness of Cassandra was nearly complete.

"A strange sentiment, from a templar." Cassandra sounded nearly amused at his outburst.

"It shouldn't be," Cullen replied, somewhat less sharply. "The Order was formed to protect the people of Thedas, not to persecute those who, through an accident of birth, are our best weapon against the darkspawn." He thought on that for a moment. "Second-best. Wardens, obviously, but I have heard the stories of the Mage-Wardens, in the last blight, and how they incinerated huge swaths of the darkspawn horde."

"And this is not a cause for fear, for the common man?" Cassandra raised an eyebrow.

"Caution is not fear. And that is the purpose of templars. We protect the people from mages who cannot behave themselves in public. But, the other side of that is we must protect the mages from the people who fear them enough to hunt them without cause." Cullen paused, finally looking back at Cassandra. "Do you know much about dwarven runework? My husband has an icebox. Or, perhaps it is more accurate to say he has an ice room. But, the runes are set inside the room and the room has a cubit space between itself and the rest of the walls of the house. I asked his steward about it, and was told the space keeps the cold inside the room and the heat out of it. The Templar Order is the space in the walls of the Chantry."

Cassandra tipped her head, looking at him as though seeing him for the first time, more curious than insulted. "I might agree with you that _excessive_ fear is a problem, a problem which leads to this." She gestured at the bones of what would eventually become a new Chantry. "But I disagree that caution is not fear. Caution is bred from fear, and a certain amount of that will keep you alive. Without any fear, you have no control, and without control, you also have... this." She gestured again at the Chantry. "But I see your point. The Circles can, on occasion, go too far, and many have lost their way. I may not agree with all your methods, Commander, but I can respect them and agree with your aims."

Cullen blinked at her a moment. "That was... more agreeable than I was expecting the Right Hand of the Divine to be," he admitted. "Especially if she is here, checking up on us again."

"Oh!" That startled a laugh out of Cassandra. "I am curious about the state of your Chantry, and Divine Justinia would appreciate an update, but I am not here about you or the mages."

Cullen breathed more easily at that admission. "Still looking for an Inquisitor?"

"The decision has been made to pursue the eldest of the Hawkes." Cassandra looked disgruntled, her face tightening.

"You disagree?" Cullen asked, before waving away the question. "Stupid question. I disagree. Whatever you want, it's probably not Cormac. He has a bit of a problem with authority. And an intensely curious means of solving problems, from what I've come to understand. I watched him battle qunari, and his tactics seem largely to involve getting hit, yodelling angrily, and --" He wasn't sure she knew Cormac was a mage, and now was probably not the time to bring it up. "-- gutting things with polearms. He's also a scholar of elven religion, and Merrill says he's quite good at it, for a human, but I don't know that it's the kind of thing you want leading an arm of the Chantry."

"It is time for change." Cassandra shrugged expressively. "I will make the decision after I have had the opportunity to judge him for myself."

They stood a moment in silence, watching the builders.

"Yodelling angrily?" Cassandra finally asked, with a curious glance at Cullen.

* * *

* * *

Artemis yawned into his tea and wondered if it would be the height of laziness to climb back into bed right after breakfast. He had been up all night working on his redesign for the city sewers, but in the light of day, those notes had looked like utter gibberish.

"Letter for you, Messere."

Artemis blinked up at Orana and accepted the proffered letter, managing not to drop it in his eggs against the odds. "Thank you, Orana." It wasn't the right handwriting to be a letter from Cormac, and Artie tried not to be disappointed at that realisation.

"A letter from another admirer?" Fenris teased, his voice extra gravelly first thing in the morning.

Artemis snorted. "Not unless Delilah Howe has taken a special shine to me," he answered, showing Fenris the letter. "In which case, I hope she has warned her husband."

"Delilah Howe?" Fenris blinked a few times until the name sunk in. "The Teyrn of Gwaren? What does she want? If it's a hunting party, we're not going."

He took the letter from his husband and tilted it until it made sense. He could read, but some people's handwriting made it much more difficult. Elven ruins, mage tower... He paused. "Did you know about this? The tower? I can't help but wonder if anyone your cousin knew was harmed in that."

"I heard some rumours about that," Artemis admitted. "I wonder how far that news has travelled."

Fenris hummed in agreement, knowing that Artemis was thinking about Anders. He handed the letter back. "And now they want a new tower in Gwaren? And they want you to build it?" He quirked an eyebrow at his husband.

Artemis shrugged, folding and unfolding the paper neatly. "Well, not just me, presumably. I guess we've been doing something right, with the Alienage and Sundermount. Or at least nothing so horribly wrong that anyone has noticed."

"It sounds like she's asking for an elven design, so she's definitely familiar with the work you've been doing on Sundermount," Fenris noted, spearing a bit of ham with his table knife. "I wonder how that's going to go over with ... anyone. It seems like the sort of decision that ends in assassination --" His eyebrows lifted. "I wonder how much she's paying Zevran to prevent that."

"Zevran _preventing_ assassination," Artemis drawled. "I suppose that makes as much sense as anything else. And really, I did some work on the Alienage and Sundermount, but the bulk of that was Natia and Theron. Why write to me?" 

Fenris gave him a flat look over a bite of ham.

"Ah. I suppose I know why," Artie sighed. He continued to toy with the paper, chewing on the inside of his cheek. He had been itching for a new project. It was why he had started poking at those damn sewers in the first place. "How do you feel about a trip to Gwaren?"

"I don't even know where Gwaren is," Fenris admitted, with a shrug. "Do you want to leave soon, or ...? I have paid little mind to the manner in which business is conducted, here. What do you need to do, besides mercilessly clean the entire house, before we go?"

Artemis chuffed. "You wound me. You know it is only out of mercy that I clean."

"That is not the word I would use, Amatus."

Artemis considered Fenris's question and his faint smile. "The most important thing is making sure my brothers won't burn down the city while we're gone. Aside from that... Orana is capable of caring for the house and the furbeasts. Though I would like to discuss the project with Natia and Theron first."

Fenris hummed, contemplatively, eyeing Artemis over the top of his coffee. "A weekend with Theron, then, before we go. I wonder how many more pairs of those ridiculous smalls he means to ruin on the rocks in the ruins. Though, I suspect he's keeping my sister in business, and out of my business... And I wonder if that fool, Junar, would like another duel, while we're up there. I would take great pleasure in reminding him that you are not a halla."

Artemis's cheeks darkened, as did his expression. "Or we could skip the duel, and I could just shove him down the mountain."

"That could be entertaining as well," Fenris agreed, smiling into his coffee.

* * *

* * *

Samson was already slouched in a chair, with Merrill looking him over, when Cullen got to the infirmary. It was a slow day -- no one had gotten hit too hard in practise, no one had slipped on the stairs -- and the room was empty, but for them and a few Tranquil, rolling bandages and stocking the shelves.

"We've heard back from a few places, but a lot of them have enough else going on that we're the least of their concerns." Cullen shook his head and parked his clattering behind on the corner of the records desk. "I'd hoped to get a reply from Kinloch Hold, but..."

"The place they used to train the healers." Samson nodded, stiffly. "I remember you talking about that. Might be nice to have a real healer around, but I'm guessing they all got squished."

Cullen opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, his expression disapproving. "That is not how I would have put it," he grumbled. "And not _all_ of them were squished, I'm sure..."

"Just enough for them to not give a flying fuck," Samson finished. "Ser," he added as an afterthought.

"Again," Cullen sighed. "Not how I would have put it. From those who did write back, on the other hand, I gather that this isn't something they have encountered before, at least not that they know of." He rubbed his forehead with his thumb. "The Rivainis had a few suggestions, though."

The way Cullen said it, forcibly hopeful, told Samson just how little faith Cullen had in the Rivainis' suggestions.

"There's an enchanter at Dairsmuid who saw what Merrill was saying about the crystals and suggested some teas and a few foods that might help. She says they help with bladder crystals, which are something I didn't even realise existed and hope I never experience." Cullen paused and shook his head to loosen the idea. "And then some for a couple different kinds of crystals in the blood. None of it lyrium, though. She did suggest that once you're feeling a little better, you might try easing off the lyrium, a bit. Just a little bit less, every week, until you're down to half and see if it flushes out."

Samson was already shaking his head, fish-white face even paler at the thought. "No. No, no, no. I'm not doing it again. I know what it's like, without. I can't do it."

"It's just an idea, Raleigh." Cullen shrugged, the gesture not enough to offset the concern on his face. "It's up to you what you want to try, and what Merrill thinks you'll be able to handle. I don't want to accidentally kill you with a cure."

"Well, I'm glad we agree on that, at least," Samson muttered, rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes. How had his life come down to this? "So is that what we've got? Food and tea that helps with rocks in your pee and hope that it translates?"

"It couldn't hurt," Merrill said with a shrug.

"I suppose not," Samson said with an explosive sigh. They were trying to be optimistic for his sake, he knew, and he hated it. But, he supposed it was always better to _do_ something. "Right. Great. Change of diet. I guess that means I have to swear off the Hanged Man's mystery stew."

Merrill hummed in agreement. "I might swear off on that on principle."

"Smart girl."


	99. Chapter 99

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathaniel has difficulties with Sebastian's relationship and Jenet is less help than he expects to be. Artemis starts trying to gather a team to go to Gwaren.

Jenet sneezed again, as he approached where Nathaniel was busy aiming at a far-off target. "What's wrong with the range on the palace grounds?" he asked, blotting his nose with an already-drippy handkerchief.

"I am on holiday," Nathaniel released his grip, and the arrow split the last one he'd sunk into the target. "The last thing I want is anyone ... _finding me_."

"What are you on holiday from, anyway? I thought the letters had stopped, since the wedding." Jenet tried breathing through the handkerchief, hoping the cloth would stop the worst of what was in the air from getting to him, but these trees always made him sneeze.

"The letters?" Nathaniel laughed bitterly. "The letters were nothing. Sebastian still can't handle that he even has a wife. He has no idea what to do with her, as if being married has somehow changed something. And on top of that, the Chantry apparently didn't teach him to fuck."

Jenet choked on his next sneeze, resulting in a profoundly bizarre sound and quite a bit of coughing.

"And he expects I'll keep his lovely bride satisfied, without starting an international incident! And worse? She thinks this is a _good idea_!" Nathaniel finally stopped ranting and looked over at where Jenet seemed to be smothering into his handkerchief. "Are you quite all right?"

Jenet managed to disentangle himself in time for another sneeze. "Yes, I... I'm sorry. With all the sneezing, I clearly must have heard you wrong. Did you say that Sebastian...?'

"Wants me to sleep with his wife? Yes. It's an idea she is a little too okay with." Nathaniel fiddled with the bow in his hands, needing to let off some more tension but wondering if it would be rude to resume shooting. In the end, he decided he didn't give a damn and nocked another arrow.

"That is... well." Jenet sniffled wetly and wiped his nose. "You have my sympathies."

"Thanks." He punctuated the word with another shot, the arrow landing solidly next to the last one. The target was getting a bit tattered in the middle.

"Is this going to cause an incident with Kirkwall?" Jenet watched Nathaniel reach for another arrow.

"Not if I can help it." Nathaniel paused, the tip of the arrow still in the quiver as he looked over his shoulder. "Why, what's going on in Kirkwall?"

"Bethany's cousin -- I met her at the wedding -- seems like a really excellent sort." Jenet blew his nose. "Not the Warden Commander. The other cousin. Charade."

"Thank you for having the presence of mind to remove the paperwork from my desk, before defiling it." Nathaniel's next shot went a little higher than he might have liked, but was still better than most archers could manage at this range.

"I'm not stupid," Jenet sounded almost offended. "As soon as I realised it was your office, I made sure I cleared off the desk and locked your drawer."

"The drawer I had to have the lock replaced on, you mean." Another wry look over Nathaniel's shoulder.

"Sorry. I don't know what happened to the key after that. I'm not even sure what happened to my--"

"I found them on top of Abbot's, on the third shelf. And then I disposed of them." Nathaniel counted the arrows he had left, as he spoke.

"Ah." Jenet's ears reddened, even if he was able to hide most of his face behind his handkerchief. "That was probably for the best."

Nathaniel hummed his agreement, sighting down another arrow. "But please use someone else's desk, next time. Maybe Sebastian's. If he walks in on you, he might finally be able to piece together what goes where."

Still intent on his target, Nathaniel smiled when he heard Jenet make a strangled sound. "I really don't think the prince needs a demonstration."

"No?" The arrow hit just left of centre, and Nathaniel pursed his lips. "You clearly have not heard him talk about all of this."

"And I am more than fine with keeping it that way," Jenet primly insisted.

"It's really time for someone other than me to have that talk with him. No matter what I say to him, it doesn't seem to be sinking in." Aside from the argument about Bethany's nightgown, but Nathaniel wasn't explaining that to Jenet. "Nor does he seem to be sinking it into her, and more's the pity."

"It can't be as bad as all that, can it?" Jenet sneezed again. "I'm sure his father at least explained the basics!"

"Mine didn't," Nathaniel grumbled. "But, I also didn't get packed off to the Chantry. No, I got sent off to spend my summers with the lovely Lady Cousland, who I'd suspect of being a desire demon, if she didn't have a lifelong fetish for shoving my face in the mud."

"Well, there! Why don't you have Lady Cousland put a stop to this!" Jenet brightened. "It worked, last time!"

"Because Lady Cousland doesn't want a stop put to this. She thinks it's a _wonderful_ idea!" The last sentence echoed back off the hills behind them.

"She..." Jenet blinked. "Well. Then that is not helpful."

"No, it is not," Nathaniel muttered.

Jenet wasn't going to dwell too long on that. "Then, who else could talk to him about this?" He sneezed again and wiped his watering eyes.

Nathaniel did not need to answer. He simply gave Jenet a look, fingers tapping against his bow.

"...no." The word came out muffled through Jenet's handkerchief. "I am not... no."

"If you can think of someone better," Nathaniel said with a sharp, unamused smile, "then let me know."

"What would I even tell him?" Jenet whipped the handkerchief away from his face as punctuation, and then sneezed violently and brought it back.

"'Don't leave your smalls on other people's bookshelves' might be a start," Nathaniel joked drily. "Or perhaps you can regale him with whatever instructional bullshit your father told you, when you were of an age to need it. As noted, mine did not."

"We're almost the same age!" Jenet protested. "I mean, aren't you the one old enough to be his father?"

Nathaniel froze, in horror, as he checked the dates again. "No. No, I am not. Andraste's knickers, how old do you think I am? I'm not even ten years older than him! You're just about the middle between us, aren't you?"

Jenet blinked in surprise. "Huh. I suppose that's true. You're just a good lot more commanding than most noblemen of your age. Our age, apparently. You've got a bearing to you."

"Warden," Nathaniel replied, with a shrug, crouching as he studied the target and his shots so far. "After the broodmothers, nothing is serious."

"Except those perfumed letters."

"To the broodmothers with those letters, frankly."

* * *

* * *

"So what do you think?" Artemis asked, trying not to be distracted by the child trying to climb into Theron's hair. 

"I think Delilah Howe has good taste," Theron replied, extracting the child with one hand without even blinking.

Out of the corner of his eye, Artemis watched Fenris gently steer another child away from poking at his sword. The little ones were starting to look not so little.

"I'm not arguing that," Artie said with a crooked smile. "But what do you think about coming with me? You and Kalli?"

Theron hesitated, throwing a glance over his shoulder at his wife, who was refilling her cup with one ear on the conversation. "I do have quite a few fond memories of Ferelden," he said, "but, uh... Ferelden might not have such fond memories of us."

"I don't know if the guard in Denerim still care," Kalli said, lips curling up as she held back a chuckle, "but I did execute about a quarter of a noble estate. The mayor's estate. And then I ran off with this idiot, before I had to carve my way through the city guard."

"I married the Bane of Denerim," Theron reminded them. "Who is nothing but respectful of my lengthy years of scholarship."

"It's not your scholarship I'm talking about, it's everything else!" Kalli protested, taking a sip of water and wrapping her free arm around Theron's waist. "Well, almost everything, but I'm not talking about that in front of the kids."

"She loves me." Theron grinned widely and kissed Kalli's cheek.

"But, no, I don't think I need to go back to Ferelden. Theron's told me about what it was like having no parents, even in a clan like this, and that's not what I want for our kids. They should have both of us. When they're old enough, I want to be able to tell them the story of why I won't go back to Ferelden." Kalli chuckled and squeezed Theron's bottom. "So, you're welcome to relieve me of this pain in my ass, for a few months, but do me a favour and bring him back in the same number of pieces he left. I don't want to listen to him whine about losing any of them, especially if they're important parts."

"I promise we will return him with the right amount of parts in their correct places," Artemis assured her. "Possibly glued back together, but that depends on him."

"That works for me," Kalli agreed. "Someone will have to let Varania know she's losing his business for a few months. Fenris, are you planning on visiting your sister while you're here?"

"Not to discuss Theron's underwear purchases," Fenris replied, one ear twitching. The child nearest him made a face before turning back to her sister, and Fenris considered apologising for whatever mental image he had given her. "Is she here? I thought she would be working today?"

"She is, as far as I know," Theron said, eyebrows twitching up. "But from what I understand, Fran occasionally lets her work from here."

"Has she officially declared herself moved in up here?" Artemis asked with a slow smile. "Or is she still in denial?"

"Oh, yes. The last of her furniture came up last week." Theron nodded. "Hahren Paivel's beside himself. Ashalle says he didn't act this young when he was this young. I've never seen him this happy."

"Yes, but you've only seen him while he was putting up with you," Kalli teased.

"I was an absolute delight," Theron stated, loudly. "And smart, too." He stuck out his tongue and his daughters giggled.

"See, they know. Their father's a smart _ass_." Kalli laid a firm swat across Theron's ass.

"I wonder if being a donkey makes it more acceptable. How closely are donkeys related to halla?" A sly smile crossed Fenris's face.

Artemis felt his cheeks heat. Somewhere, there was a crass joke about ass-fuckers, but Artie considered the children and pursed his lips. "That just raises more questions about you and Kalli."

Fenris coughed, abashedly, looking at something fascinating on the floor behind Theron.

Theron pointed at Artemis. "That is a shem, not a halla. In case you were confused. Note the lack of long, swirly horns."

"Oh, don't you try to tell me he's not horny," Kalli cracked, and the girls looked up in disgust.

"Mamae, ewww!" one of them complained.

"Well it's true!" Kalli protested, laughing.

Artemis hid his face behind his hand while Fenris bit his lip to keep from cackling. "Let's please not traumatise the children," he sighed. 

"They deal with Theron on a daily basis," Fenris pointed out. "Are they capable of being traumatised?"

"Yes!" answered the two girls playing on the floor.

"Ah. My mistake."


	100. (Autumn 9:39)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aveline goes to see Varric about a certain angry Nevarran. Anton tries to decide what to do about the situation in Orlais.

The afternoon air, in Hightown, was stifling as the late summer heat crawled across the city. This high above the docks, there wasn't even the sea breeze to cut it. Already irate, without the heat adding to it, Aveline checked the buckles on her gloves one last time before storming into the Garden of Delights.

"Where's Varric?" she demanded of a startled looking elf watering flowers in the lobby.

"Messere Varric is not in, today," the elf replied, shaking his head. "You could leave a message for him."

There was no implication that Varric would do anything about that message, Aveline noted. "Don't waste my time," she snapped, ducking around the elf, only to find three more in her way.

"Ah! Guard Captain!" One of the elves smiled warmly at Aveline. "How good of you to visit us. Let us bring you some Redcliffe golden ale, and you can enjoy it in the shade of the resting lime. Are you expecting someone to meet you, today? We can have them brought right to you, when they arrive."

Aveline folded her arms across her chest and stared down the smiling elf. "I _expect_ to have a chat with Varric. You can either tell him I'm here, or I'll drag him out myself."

The elf's smile froze, and she exchanged a concerned glance with her compatriots. "I am afraid that Messere Varric is not--"

"Right." Aveline cut her off, pushing her way through the elves. She made her way downstairs where she knew Varric liked to work when he was keeping his head down, and she found him bent over a desk, scribbling notes into the margins of an article.

"Guard Captain, please--!" one of the elves called from behind her, but Aveline ignored her.

Varric, on the other hand, greeted Aveline with a smile, his arms spread in welcome as though he had been expecting her. "Aveline! To what do I owe the pleasure?" He set down his quill, using a rag to wipe a blot of ink from his fingers.

"There was a very angry woman in armour in my office, looking for you." Aveline slammed her hand down on the desk. "In relation to a _murder_ in Antiva."

"Antiva? Better to look to the Crows." Varric shook his head, but he wasn't all that surprised. Vallisti had been an important man. "But, who's the woman?" He hoped he was wrong. There was no reason for those things to be linked in any way.

"Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast," Aveline informed him. "I've told her I wouldn't detain you until you committed a crime in Kirkwall, so whatever you're up to, now would be a great time to knock it off."

"What am I up to? Oh, you wound me, Aveline! I'm just working on another book!" Varric gestured to the piles of paper stacked all over the desk. "But, you're right. I was in Antiva on holiday -- but that's it. A holiday. Rivaini wanted to take her friend Al to visit family, but by the time we got to where they were staying, we were just in time for his father's funeral. Awkward business. But, I'm pretty sure we didn't _murder_ anybody on our way to the funeral."

Aveline stared at him flatly, as though she could peel back his skin the longer she looked at him. "You are full of shit," she said. "But whatever it is you're doing, I don't want to know anyway. I suspect that the less I know, the less irritated I will be."

To Varric, she seemed plenty irritated enough already.

"Just... whatever it is, watch your back. And don't cause me more trouble than you're worth!"

"I'm sure the seeker will do the right thing and leave all of us alone," Varric said in his 'look-how-reasonable-I'm-being' voice. "Though all this excitement does give me a great idea for a new book..."

Aveline threw her hands up in the air. "Just leave me out of this one. I am not posing for another cover!"

"Ah, come on, Aveline! You looked great! The book might not be doing so hot, but the ad posters for the next volume were stolen the same day they went up. They've been showing up in houses all over Kirkwall. Everybody loves that picture!" Varric chuckled.

"Except me." Aveline's glare was almost enough to set the stacks of paper aflame.

"Fine, fine. No more travails of the dashing guardswoman. Maybe a handsome dwarf persecuted for being in the wrong place at the wrong time." Varric rubbed his knuckles against his shaven jaw.

"Well, if he's supposed to be handsome, you'll have to give him a beard." Aveline picked up an illustration from the corner of the desk and studied it, before setting it back down on the same pile. "Everyone knows handsome dwarves have beards."

* * *

* * *

"Viscount!"

Damn. He'd been spotted.

Anton quickened his step, trying not to make it obvious. He had gotten good at pretending not to hear Seneschal Bran, particularly when his voice had that urgent and mildly exasperated quality to it.

" _Viscount_! I can see you, and I know your hearing is not that bad! You have a meeting in half an hour!"

Anton considered doing the childish thing and making a break for it, scaling the garden wall and disappearing into the streets. Instead, he turned to address Bran with a pleasant smile. "Of course we do! You don't think I would forget, do you?"

Bran answered with a flat look. 

"What? I was just thinking we could have our meeting outside. Fresh air is... good for you, or so I hear."

Bran's nose twitched, and he reached for a handkerchief in time for a sneeze. "I'm sure you were thinking of everyone's well-being," Bran drawled, voice distorted by the handkerchief. 

"Of course I am," Anton agreed. "That's me. I'll go down in history as Viscount Considerate." He eyed Bran's suddenly runny eyes. "Maybe you should stay in here and direct people outside."

It was actually a good idea. Someone would have to do that, if Anton refused to come back in. On the other hand, Bran didn't trust Anton to stay where he said he'd be, at this point. "Tylden!" Bran called out to one of the guards. "Let the Council know today's meeting will be in the tea garden." And that would be his revenge. He'd move Anton to the part of the garden with the smallest number of things that would make his nose run.

"I was thinking of the pond, actually." Anton tapped his chin, contemplatively.

"Absolutely not. The tea garden is designed for taking tea, which means it has proper tables and a minimum of small flowers and lightweight fluttering detritus." Bran crossed his arms and looked sternly at Anton, as he tended to look at his son, when Jenet was up to inexplicably stupid things. "And it is still outside and full of fresh air."

"But, I wanted to--"

"The tea garden," Bran insisted.

"Stop that. You look like my mother." Anton shook himself and turned back toward the great outdoors.

Anton would deny that he was sulking, but Bran was the more pleasant of the two as he ushered the councillors over. His eyes were still red and drippy, but no one commented.

"Oh, what a lovely idea, Anton!" Merrill chirped. "It really is a beautiful day to be outside, and I always did like the gardens." As she spoke, she wandered over to look at the flowers, missing the seat Bran tried to gesture her to.

"That was the plan," Anton sighed. He plucked a flower and twirled the stem in his hand.

Lady Selbrech took the seat closest to Merrill, her dignified bearing disguising most of her nerves. She was still new to the council, and some of the other nobles had given her a cool reception at best.

"I have heard the stirrings of trouble in Orlais," Anton said, once everyone was seated somewhere near a table. "There are rumours that Grand Duke Gaspard may try to unseat the Empress, since she rebuffed his marriage proposal. I don't know how they do it in Orlais, but in Ferelden, we don't usually marry our cousins."

"Oh, but they're nobles, Anton," Merrill said, hands full of flowers she was weaving into a long chain. "They're the royal family. They're related to every other royal family in Thedas, or that's what everyone says. Every royal house in Thedas holds the generations of Queen Asha. So, even if she married out, everyone who would be appropriate is related to her."

Lady Olmos blinked at Merrill in surprise. "Have you been studying up on human customs?"

"She's Dalish," Lady Faolain whispered to Lady Selbrech.

"Oh, no, that's common knowledge. It's always important to know the histories of the ruling families of anywhere you travel, so you'll know if they have any grudges you need to avoid." Merrill smiled and brought the chain together in a circle with a few more twists, before depositing it on Anton's head. "I suspect Empress Celene's objections are deeper than just that he's her cousin."

Anton reached up to straighten his new flower crown. He planned to wear this for the rest of the day, just to see if anyone would say anything. "Regardless, she has refused him, and I have no doubt that means things will get ugly."

"He wouldn't dare," Lord Bonnaire huffed. Still, he looked worried.

"He might dare," Anton replied with a shrug. "There's a good chance that he will dare. And we need to decide where we stand if he does."

"We stand in the Marches," said Lady Faolain, folding her arms across her chest. "And I say we stay that way. Let Orlais figure itself out or tear itself apart. It's not our problem."

"It could very well be our problem," Lord Brannon objected. "Orlais has a long reach. There will be repercussions."

"Orlais has already made attempts on Kirkwall, within the Dragon Age, and it never hurts to be prepared," Anton pointed out. "I understand some of you may have family in Orlais." He cut a look at Lord Marchaund. "It may be best to evacuate them, if the situation begins to sour. Regardless of whether we take sides, a war would open the way for an enterprising general to take hostages for leverage in foreign lands."

"Don't be absurd! That is utterly beyond the pale!" Lord Bonnaire protested. "Why, Orlais fights a civilised war!"

"And I'm Fereldan," Anton reminded them, reaching back to pluck a honeysuckle blossom from behind him, teasing out the nectar as he spoke. "I grew up in the wake of what a war with Orlais will bring, and the tactics they will sink to, in order to win."

"Brandel was a weak king! We have nothing to fear! The people of Kirkwall--"

"Shut up, Bonnaire," Lady Descoteaux cut him off. "The people of Kirkwall are still recovering from the Chantry forsaking them, the Templar Order regarding the entire city as its personal domain, and a Qunari invasion. A few stiff bribes will still turn a lot of heads, no matter what good Viscount Anton has brought them."

Lady Olmos rubbed at her forehead, a gesture that might have translated into wiping a hand over her face if she had been wearing make-up, dramatic in the current Antivan fashion. "Would we be able to handle another war?" she asked. "We are still rebuilding. The new Chantry isn't yet finished!"

"Those are wars that started from within," Lady Selbrech pointed out. She jumped when Merrill placed a flower crown on her head but then offered her a smile. "We are better equipped to defend ourselves from an outside invasion, at least for a little while. Perhaps we should test the chains to make sure they are still in working order."

Anton shifted in his seat and tried not to look too excited at the idea. Ever since Bran had told him that the viscount had the key to working the chains, Anton had been itching to try it out. "I think that is a wonderful idea."

Merrill leaned over and tried to set another crown on Bran's head, which he quickly sidestepped, with a dark look and a small sneeze. She set it on Lady Descoteaux's head, instead, which was met with a small flutter of surprise. "The chains are good, but the chains are what started the problem, last time. Or at least they changed a fight about money into a big conspiracy and two assassinations. Ass. ass. ination. I wonder if it's called that because if you sink to it you're twice the ass?"

"The word's for some plant the Red Monks used to put in their liquor that made them think they were invincible or something." Lady Faolain shrugged. "Or that's what Orlesian novels about Antiva would have you believe."

"So, you think the chains will turn them to Crows?" Anton asked, considering his recent archery lessons. He certainly wasn't Sebastian, but he wasn't terrible.

"I think you've forgotten the whole Wounded Coast," Merrill replied. "It's how the Qunari got here. And all those smugglers you used to shake out over the cliffs."

"We also let the Qunari stay here peacefully," Lady Faolain pointed out. "Which turned out about as well as anyone expected. That isn't to say that we should not take that into consideration, however. We will need to work on making ourselves more defensible from that angle. It would be difficult to assault us with an army from either front, but the Orlesians are masters at tearing each other apart without armies." She swept a dry look over the Orlesian nobles gathered.

Lady LeClair huffed. "Or maybe we could solve this the way we did with the qunari and have our viscount challenge the duke to a duel."

"'We'?" Anton repeated, quirking an eyebrow. "And while that's tempting, I would much rather shove him into the ocean and save ourselves the trouble."

Bran shook his head and sighed, only to find another crown shoved under his nose, this one with lime blossoms. He narrowed his eyes at Merrill's guileless smile, but at least the lime didn't make his nose itch.

Lord Tolbert, silent to this point, caught a look at what Merrill held. "That is fantastically inappropriate, Baroness!"

"Oh, don't be silly. She's Dalish. I'm sure she doesn't know!" Lady Selbrech stifled a giggle.

"Well, he's very handsome! I thought it brought out his eyes!" Merrill protested, knowing lime flowers perfectly well from Anton's gardens back at the Amell estate. "And look! He's not even sneezing!"

"Oh, come on, Bran! How many times are you going to get lime blossoms from a pretty young elf, at this point in your life?" Lord Marchaund teased.

"You'd be surprised," Bran drawled, leaning forward just a bit so Merrill could reach. She had a point -- at least it didn't make him sneeze. And he could discomfit visitors the rest of the day, if he kept it on.

"He says this like it's a regular thing!" Lord Brannon scoffed.

"Well, look at him!" Lady Selbrech gestured to the Seneschal, whose composure looked only the least bit disrupted by this nonsense. "You're two thirds his age, and you don't look so good! Maybe if you did, it would be more regular for you!"

" _Orlais_ ," Anton reminded them. "We are discussing Orlais."

"Well, I'm pretty sure he's getting Orlaid, tonight," Lord Marchaund quipped.

"Really?" Bran sighed. Anton gave Lord Marchaund a disapproving look, but Bran suspected it was because he was beaten to the pun. He regretted letting the viscount convince him to have the meeting outside.

They went back to discussing the situation and how to prepare if it came to war. By the end of the meeting, they were all wearing flower crowns.


	101. Chapter 101

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merrill has a dream about someone who's been gone a long while. Artemis and Fenris remember.

"You're going back to Ferelden?" Merrill smiled up at Artemis, curiously. "That's wonderful. Oh, I wish I could go with you... I wish I could see..." She shook her head, thinking of Tamlen. He must have died, but as far as anyone knew, he'd just vanished. Maybe she could talk Bethany into taking a holiday with her, next year. Bethany might be able to find his bones.

"But, Gwaren? Are you sailing straight there? I've heard the ports of Gwaren are amazing -- full of crystal and dwarven statues! But, we never got close enough to really see."

Fenris looked faintly amused, as Merrill tried to describe the port with her hands. "Maybe we can buy a painting for you."

"I would offer to make you a sculpture," Artemis added, "but I, uh, doubt I could do it justice. We passed through Gwaren when we were escaping the Blight, but I didn't get a chance to stop and appreciate it. It will be nice to get the chance."

Artie still wasn't sure how he felt about going back. He wanted to, of course, but his last memories of Ferelden weren't the happiest, and he wasn't sure if he would recognise it any more.

Merrill giggled into her hand before nudging Artemis in the arm. "I would still like it!" she insisted. 

"I'm sure anything I made would just give Carver nightmares." Artie tilted his head, considering. "I just gave myself some good incentive."

"Oh, speaking of nightmares -- well, dreams, really -- do you remember a young man called Feynriel? I guess you helped him go to Tevinter to study magic?" Merrill's brow crinkled, as she tried to remember.

Fenris cleared his throat and looked away. "Yes. Keeper Marethari needed a favour."

Which was one of the worst experiences of his post-Tevinter life, and he wished he didn't remember it so clearly. The lure of the demon. 'Just a moment of your time.' Lies. All lies. And something that had, quite honestly, given him a great deal more respect for mages who dealt with that sort of thing regularly.

"Well, he came to me in a dream, looking for the Keeper. I was rather sorry to have to tell him that she'd died." Merrill had, of course, left out the manner of her death. There was no use worrying the boy at a distance. "He wanted to offer his thanks to all of you, but he'd been looking for Marethari first. It seemed such an excellent trick, to visit all the way from Tevinter, and so easily! So, I asked if he knew anything about Eluvians, and he said he'd get back to me. But, he was so ... small, somehow. I got the sense he owed you more than just ship's passage to Neromenian."

Artemis cleared his throat, careful not to look at Fenris but still watching his reaction out of the corner of his eye. "Yes, the demons were... particularly fascinated with him. We helped him get out of that alive. I'm glad to hear he's doing well."

Fenris hummed in polite agreement, even if he still found it unsettling that the boy could enter someone's dreams so easily. Tevinter had enough stories about somniari to make his skin crawl, but... in the end, he supposed Feynriel had proven himself where Fenris had failed.

"He offered to come back," Merrill went on, propping herself against the wall, "after I told him about Marethari and that I hadn't gone back. We still don't have any mages, you know? Well, one mage now that your sister has moved in." Merrill beamed at Fenris. "But... I'm not sure she's interested in becoming Keeper. Not that Feynriel could, either. I mean, he's human-blooded. Not that there's anything wrong with being human-blooded, but... well, you know."

Artemis nodded in understanding before she could ramble herself into a corner. "That would certainly make his mother happy."

"But, I thought Varania would need some help. A Keeper is almost never alone, and whether she's the Keeper or not, she shouldn't be the only mage up there. And however little anyone likes it, I'm the only one left with our clan's magic, and I'd rather pass it on to more than one person. Just... in case. We've had so much trouble already..."

"Some of the children must be...?" Fenris raised an eyebrow, thinking of himself and his sister. "They have to be getting close to that age."

"Soon." Merrill nodded. "I want to make sure they grow up in a clan with mages. Paivel is wonderful, and he'll teach them so much, just like he taught all of us -- and your sister -- but, someone has to bring the rest of the traditions back up the mountain, and I think that Feynriel could be a good choice. His mother still lives up there, you know? She took some of the children."

Artemis smiled, pleased that something good had come out of that clusterfuck of a mission into the Fade. "Couldn't hurt. I could certainly think of worse influences."

Fenris looked at him sidelong. "Like Junar?"

Artemis nodded, face tightening. "I swear, if any of those children start calling me a halla because of him..." He let the threat hang there, unfinished, knowing that Fenris and Merrill would fill in the blanks with something more creative and worthy than he could come up with just then.

Fenris gave his arm a supportive squeeze, not quite hiding his amusement.

"I have to tell you, he startled me at first," Merrill said with a chuckle. "Feynriel, that is. Not Junar. He didn't look anything like I was expecting."

"Well, he is human-blooded," Fenris said with a shrug, but Merrill was already shaking her head.

"No, no, it wasn't that. He looked... distorted? Like..." Merrill again tried to make her point through pantomime, stretching her neck way out and tugging at her ears to make their point more exaggerated.

Artemis blinked, not sure what she was going for. "Like a... crazy person?" he suggested.

"No, like... like a child's drawing. All limbs and ears. Still an elf, but strange. Maybe it's just because I never knew him that well." Merrill shrugged and rubbed her ear. "I don't know much about dreamers. There haven't been any in a long time."

"Are you sure it wasn't a demon pretending to be Feynriel?" Fenris asked, trying to figure out what would be gained by taking a form like that.

"No, I've met demons. This was a real man with a real body to go back to. He didn't... bend things, like demons do. They're always fuzzy around the edges. He just... didn't look right." Merrill stared into the space between a statue and the side of a building. "Like, hm. Like maybe he was trying to be more of an elf, but didn't know how. But, you'd know better. Why would anyone want to be more of an elf, in Tevinter? Wouldn't it be better to be _less_ of an elf?"

"Marethari said he would be very powerful. There is always room for power, in Tevinter," Fenris replied, scowling.

"In the Fade," Artemis began. He hesitated a moment, unsure if this was his story to tell. "When we went to pull him out, one of the demons used Marethari's form to tempt him, showed her welcoming him into the clan and... I forget the exact words, but there was something about her calling him a true elf no matter his human blood. I think he just wanted to belong to something. Still wants to, if he's asking to come back." He shrugged.

Merrill's face softened, expression exaggerated by large eyes.

"The Fade decided to turn me into Orsino for that dream," Artie went on, head tilting. "I'm still not sure how to interpret that part, except that I, at least, fit the elfy theme."

"So, the Fade turns everyone into elves?" Merrill asked, looking more than a little surprised at the idea.

"Actually, now that you mention it..." Fenris cocked his head and stared deeply into nothing. "Didn't your brother also turn into an elf?"

"Which-- wait, didn't you have Cormac with you? Oh, that's ... er ..." Merrill blinked a few times. "Strangely appropriate, really."

"He was certainly better looking as an elf," Fenris assured her. "But, I prefer elves to bears any day of the week."

Merrill looked over her shoulder at a sudden ruckus behind them. Two young men were running through the streets, drunkenly waving their trousers over their heads. "Some days I prefer bears."


	102. Chapter 102

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kirkwall's famed demon hunting team come across something -- someone -- rather unexpected in the Undercity.

Carver was getting used to their regular jaunts through the Undercity, was getting used to the stale air, the dirt and dust, and to staring into the shadows cut by flickering torches. He was even almost used to the demons, to the constant burn of a Smite at his fingertips. What he wasn't used to was going this long without seeing any. It was making him twitchy.

"Quiet down here, today," Keran said, his voice making Carver jump and turn to glare at him. Keran held up a hand in a placating gesture. "Trust me, I'm not complaining. Ser."

"Don't worry, Ser Keran, I know what your actual complaining sounds like," Carver replied, kicking a bit of debris out of his way and squinting into the dark.

Keran opened his mouth as though to do just that, when Merrill cleared her throat, shifting the light closer to the wall, highlighting the edge of a door.

"With any hope," she said, "it's been quiet because we've been doing a good job. But we should check what's inside there before deciding either way."

Alain stepped back, positioning himself directly across from the door while Carver and Keran stood close to either side of it. They'd done this before. It was always best to take things by surprise, they'd found -- or at least as surprising as one can be to things that could apparently occasionally read minds. When Carver gave the signal, Alain hit the door with a tight wave of force, throwing it straight down the centre of the ... cozy, well-lit room.

Keran led, because he had the angle, charging in, when Carver didn't move toward anything on the other side, checking the corners as he moved toward the lone figure seated at a desk.

"Semper ita crassi estis?" the figure asked, turning its face up from the book it was studying to reveal a rather Tevinter-looking face, over a double chin.

Keran stopped sort and stared at the ... man? Woman? He realised he wasn't sure. "I... What? Does anyone speak Tevene?"

"Not really, but he said something about you being rude," Merrill filled in, squeezing into the room around Carver's bulk in the doorway. "Honestly, Carver, it's not a demon. Just move."

"Are you sure?" Carver asked, eyes narrowed and hand still tight on the hilt of his sword.

"I am sure," Merrill replied with an indulgent smile. "A spirit, maybe, but not a demon."

"Yet," Keran muttered, eyeing the figure in front of them, who eyed them back in annoyance, one hand still holding the book open to the proper page.

"Er... salve," Merrill greeted the spirit, offering a friendly wave. "That is... hm. I'm afraid that's all the Tevene I know that isn't swears." At a raised eyebrow from Carver, she explained, "Isabela. Fenris tells me she taught me wrong, but they still make his ears twitch."

"Hwæt dwolung ys þys?" the spirit demanded of them, gesturing toward where the door had crashed into an enormous bronze pillar, covered in gears and spheres and strange gems. "Beon ye in þéawum of þys?"

"Do you speak Common?" Alain asked, finally coming in from the hall. "Or maybe Orlesian?"

The spirit looked mildly frustrated. "No dwarva?"

"Oh! No, we don't know dwarven." Merrill shook her head, pleased to have finally understood something.

The spirit sighed. "Dirth elvhen?"

Merrill nodded excitedly. "Ma serannas. Falon'en dar banal."

"Ma dirthara falon'dirth in ne?" the spirit asked, slipping a scrap of paper into the book it had been reading.

Merrill blinked, eyebrows arching. "Iras dar vir?" she asked.

The figure smiled and held out its hand towards hers.

Carver's gauntlets clinked as he adjusted his grip on his sword. "Merrill, what's it saying?" he asked.

"It wants to learn Common," Merrill said over her shoulder, "so it can talk to us."

"That's... nice," Keran spoke up, "but, I don't know about you, but I don't plan on staying down here quite _that_ long."

The figure beckoned with its outstretched hand, and Merrill stepped closer, slipping her hand into its palm, ignoring the way Carver tensed behind her.

"Dirthara mana," it told her. Remember.

Merrill nodded, closing her eyes to better picture it, her memories of learning the language. There was no heat or weight in the hand against hers, and, with her eyes closed, it felt as though she were holding nothing at all.

The spirit stood locked in concentration, a faint glow around its head the only sign it was anything but a normal human. Suddenly its eyes opened, and it turned to look at Keran. "Are you people always such savages?" it demanded, gesturing again at the door, as Merrill's eyes blinked in surprise, before also settling on Keran. "What foolishness is this? Are you in the habit of this sort of thing?"

"I didn't do it!" Keran sputtered, jabbing a finger at Alain.

Alain huffed and pointed at Carver. "He's the expedition leader!"

Merrill nodded and also pointed at Carver.

Carver looked around the room and offered everyone in it a single-finger salute. "We're demon hunters," he explained. "We're down here trying to clear out a thousand years of pissed off demons that keep popping up in people's cellars." And living rooms, for those living in Darktown.

The spirit sighed, removing its hand from Merrill's grip. "Oh, thank you. It doesn't make up for the damage done to the --" he took a moment to translate the name of the device "-- planar alignment calculator, but if you could do something about the terrors on the next level... I don't know when they changed, but they're so very loud and discordant."

"How long have you been here?" Alain asked, studying the endless array of titles on the books that lined every wall of the room. Nearly all of them were Tevene, but a few looked like they might be elven or dwarven. "This is really quite a library."

"Long enough that you do not speak Tevene," the spirit replied. "I worked for a group of mages who thought themselves quite powerful. They wanted to see the whole of the Fade, to measure the shifting essence and trace the squirming paths. Squirming? Is that not right?"

"Winding?" Keran suggested, crouching down to warm himself by the obviously-magical fireplace.

The spirit paused to taste the word. "No, I think squirming. Ah! _Serpentine_. Yes. Changing and twisted, like a snake. But, then they no longer returned to ask questions. And no one came to replace them. So, I kept working. It's not like I had anything better to do."

"And you've been down here all this time?" Merrill asked, eyes alight and voice awed. "There is so much we could learn from you!"

The spirit hummed. "That depends on the sort of knowledge you wish to learn. Regardless, first I must make adjustments to my current research. All the recent shaking," it gestured at the ceiling above them, "has led to a higher probability of errors. And this is precise work. No error can be tolerated."

"I see," said Merrill, though she didn't really see at all. "So what do you -- well. What do I call you, first? Do you have a name?" It seemed rude not to know.

The figure stilled, brows knitting. "The ones that came before you...they called me Exquisitor. 'Researcher'."

"Oh. Well, that seems impersonal, but I suppose if you like it, it doesn't matter." Merrill pointed her way around the room. "This is Carver -- put your sword away, Carver. And over there reading a book is Alain -- I think that's upside down, Alain -- the mage who blew the door in. And by the fire is Keran, who is going to be very warm with all that armour on. And I'm Merrill. I'm, well, I'm a researcher, too."

"You are a young elf," the spirit said, and then paused. "No, a new elf."

"No, I think you were right the first time." Merrill shook her head.

"I was not. You are not like the elves before. There were whole elves, and then broken elves, and then new elves. You have changed much. Once, I was called upon to work with the whole elves, but everything fell and so much was lost. When Tevinter came, I was just glad to have someone to talk to, again. Someone to talk to me. It's all changed so very much, and the whole of my current work would be meaningless, if it hadn't -- if the elves were still whole."

"Oh! Yes! The elves were once an empire, and we were all across Thedas, and then Tevinter came. And then we escaped, but then Orlais came. And now we are Dalish, to remember, but we have no cities. Well, no. We have one city, but it's very small. My clan lives there." Merrill smiled at the thought of Theron and Paivel.

The spirit blinked up at her, shaking its head. "That is quite a bit of change for so small a time. I am grateful that I study the Fade and not this world or I would have to keep starting over."

"This is so weird," Keran whispered to Alain, who merely shrugged, adjusting the angle of the book he wasn't actually reading. "Don't you think this is weird?"

"I've spent the last few months travelling with Samson," Alain whispered back. "My sense of 'weird' has shifted. Plus, it's Kirkwall. What hasn't happened in Kirkwall at this point?"

The Exquisitor turned a rueful look on the book he had been poring over before they'd arrived. "But... if you are here, and you are not Tevinter, am I to understand that my research is no longer needed? Or do you have some use for it?"

"What are you working on?" Alain asked, finally giving up on the book. "Something about the Fade, but with Tevinter, it's always something about the Fade."

"Mapping the Fade. Predicting its patterns and shifts, over time. It is much more complicated than just drawing a picture of roads and mountains -- the Fade is ever-changing, turned to dreams and the kingdoms of powerful spirits. Even a mark made to keep a path may not be there on the next visit to what should have been the same place, by the comprehension of the dust-people." The Exquisitor gestured to the damaged device. "It will not take me long to set it right, again. Maybe on the order of months. But, if there is no use for my work..." It looked sadly around the room.

"I think First Enchanter Tim would be very interested in your work," Carver decided, having no real idea what Tim would take interest in. Still, a sentient creature that had been working on the same thing for probably more than a thousand years would have incredible insight, if there were a way to keep it from becoming a demon. "What if we bring him down to meet you?"

"First Enchanter?" the Exquisitor asked, eyes dulling as it tried to put meaning to the phrase. "A leader of the mages?"

Carver nodded. "I'd invite you to come up with us, but I don't think it's safe."

"It most certainly is not, without a door to close," the spirit pointed out, with a sharp look at Carver.

Carver bit his tongue instead of shifting the blame back to Alain. It was best not to start that again. "So, um. I guess you should stay here while we inform Tim." It didn't set right in his gut, leaving a spirit unattended like that, but if its words were to be trusted, it had already been down there for centuries anyway.

The Exquisitor hummed indulgently. "Where else would I go?"


	103. Chapter 103

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anton and Bran have a long talk about Charade. Orana gets an invitation to a genuinely interesting shop.

Anton found Bran sitting in the antechamber, scribbling irately, his hand specked with ink, muttering to himself.

"This is not the man I raised my son to be, and this is definitely not the kind of woman I raised him to associate with!" Bran snarled, snatching up a letter that looked like it had been roughly handled.

"Your son was last seen with my cousin," Anton noted, crossing one leg over the other as he leaned his hip against the corner of the desk. "You want to tell me what's going on?"

Bran reddened. Anton's cousin. Of course she was. Gamlen's daughter. He shouldn't have been writing this reply at work -- he shouldn't even have been thinking about this at work, but when was he ever home long enough? "She takes after her father," he said, face falling back into something like its usual placid calm. "My family isn't so well-placed as to have that. And as I recall, neither was yours."

"What? No. She's not a gambler! Not an honest one, anyway. She's coming up in the world, not down." Anton smiled, easily. He still hadn't met Solona, but he was fond of Charade. She reminded him of himself, when he was young and ... not in charge of an entire city.

Bran shot him a flat look as he twirled his quill in agitation. "She is a thief and a swindler," he pointed out. "That is reason enough for me to warn him away from her. Besides, if she and my son were to..." He gestured with the quill. "It would make us related. I would be your uncle. Isn't one uncle enough?"

"When that uncle is Gamlen," Anton agreed. "But, then, you wouldn't be anything like Gamlen at all. You might even be a good influence, talk me out of my roguish ways with good old familial concern." Anton flashed Bran his most charming smile, but Bran was immune.

"I would much rather talk you out of this room," Bran sighed. "I need to finish this." Bold, since he shouldn't be doing this at work, but he doubted Anton would call him on it.

"Really, Bran, what's your concern? She's an Amell. Jenet's standing will be higher than the Chantry spire if he marries her. We've been here forever and aside from a few bad years, we've been right up at the top of Kirkwall's nobility. My grandfather was almost viscount, and I know you know it."

"She's still a thief!" Bran blinked up at Anton in surprise.

"Do you... have any idea what I did for a living, before I became viscount?" Anton's eyebrow lifted and so did the corner of his mouth. "I mean, you were there. I took more coin off you..."

"You were a gambler, and probably a cheater, too. What's that got to do with it? You obviously got some sense and decency, though perhaps not as much as the council is accustomed to seeing in a viscount."

"I was also a nick." Anton laughed as Bran stared. "Don't look at me like that! My husband had to stop me walking off with half a set of silver, while we were in Starkhaven. I really just meant to inconvenience that cad who married my sister, but Cullen insisted I'd start an international incident. It runs in the family, and I'm still the viscount of Kirkwall." He paused. "What I'm saying is, don't underestimate her."

"You're also saying that thieving runs in the family, which doesn't give me much hope for any potential children they may have." Bran rubbed at his forehead with his free hand, as though to ward off a growing headache.

"I'm also saying that greatness runs in the family," Anton said, tipping his chin up. "Don't forget that the Hero of Ferelden is an Amell." Bringing her up was a gamble, since she also reinforced that magic ran in the family. He wondered if Bran would mind that half as much as the thieving. "Also, I can't say I know your son all that well, but... Telling him not to pursue her just makes her forbidden fruit. Or at least that's how I would see it, if my father had pulled something similar."

"Yes, but _you_ are a thieving reprobate," Bran looked less than amused.

"And you've just rubbed ink on your face." Anton shrugged. "Ask my older brother. Shit, ask my younger brother. They'll tell you the same thing. But, really, my older brother and that... elf thing he's got going. Stay away from the elves, everyone told us, but no, he had to go bone the elves. All of them, or so I've heard. He's legendary in the village on the mountain. They've been talking about him since he was _fourteen_. It's... not going to work the way you want it to."

"Then what, shall I pay her to find someone else?" Bran dabbed at his face with a sheet of blotter paper, trying to absorb the ink before it dried.

"Absolutely not. If she's as smart as I know she is, she'll figure out a way to exploit that, and you'll be out the money and your son." Anton laughed at the idea of Charade taking the money and Jenet and moving to Antiva. "Just tell him what you know. Find out as much as you can and send it to him. It's my cousin, but I can point you at some very reliable people who can get the job done. After that, it's up to him. We'll see how much she's already told him and how well he takes the rest. But, after the shouting down she gave my uncle, at the wedding... Really, just be glad it's not Lady _Cousland_. Or Lady Frisshell -- she sends letters you could freshen a pigsty with."

Bran grumbled under his breath, but at least he had set down his quill. "Fine. With any luck it won't last anyway."

* * *

* * *

Orana read the letter again, then turned it over to check that she hadn't accidentally opened something meant for the Messeres Fartemis, but no, her name was written on it clearly. The included charm was heavy in her hand, and she didn't need to be a mage to sense the magic in it, the way it made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. An invitation, the note claimed, to some sort of shop. Sent to her because the owner had heard of her? That seemed odd. Perhaps it was some friend of Messere Artemis or Messere Varric, though she'd never heard the name before.

"Trouble?" Fenris asked, appearing from the kitchen, where he'd picked up a roll fresh from the oven, and was tossing it from hand to hand, waiting for it to cool.

"No, I... I've gotten a very strange letter." Orana offered him the note, and Fenris took it, switching to bouncing the roll in one hand, as he read.

Fenris quirked an eyebrow as he tried to make sense of it. "What is this 'Black Emporium'?" he asked.

"No idea." Orana shrugged. "Sounds a bit ominous, doesn't it?"

Fenris hummed, the sound almost coming out as a growl as he bit into his roll. He eyed the charm she was turning over in her hands. "Do you plan to go?"

"I admit to being curious," Orana replied, thumb tracing the sigil on the charm.

"And I admit to being sceptical," Fenris said with a mouth full of bread. "If you go, you are not going alone. Artemis and I will accompany you to keep you out of danger."

* * *

Orana kept glancing back at Messere Artemis, as she followed the instructions in the letter. This place was deep below the sewers, somewhere, and for all that she knew he had visited Darktown, even that wasn't quite this consistently foul. But, the sewers had given way to dry passages with heart-stoppingly rickety wood and rope bridges, where parts of the floor had vanished into what seemed a bottomless abyss, below.

"Messere? Are you all right?" she asked, raising the lyrium lantern higher, to see down a darkened passage after some scuttering sounds. But, that was not the way. The way was actually well-lit, for the most part, and fairly clearly labelled, if you knew what you were looking for.

"If he were not, I would be carrying him, while he squeezed his eyes shut," Fenris joked, wrapping an arm around his husband. "Besides, we're past the sewers."

"I am determinedly not thinking about it," Artemis said with forced cheer, his smile just this side of strained. "I am instead thinking about how well I plan to wash my hands once we are out of here. With soap. Extra soap." Still, he looked around them as he spoke, distracted by the hanging crates and cages that lined the walkway. He wondered how long such a place had existed and how they hadn't heard of it before now.

"Ah! A customer!" a booming voice greeted them as the walkway opened into... well, it was too open to call it a 'room'. "Welcome!"

Though his arm stayed around Artemis, Fenris's body tensed as though looking for an excuse to draw his sword.

"Um. Hello." Orana addressed the air, trying to ascertain the source of the voice. It seemed to be coming from the dais in the centre, but... that creature couldn't be alive, could it?

"Few people are worthy of an invitation, you know. They search the sewers for the emporium and accost poor urchin. And I tell urchin to say, 'No! You are not worthy. Starve in the sewers!' Except urchin never speaks." The voice rang out through the shop, and a young boy could be seen, almost invisible between shelves, to look up at the word 'urchin'. "You are Orana, the Mistress of the Pans, the slave who ran for viscount, are you not? Of course you are."

"Former slave," Fenris growled, still trying to figure out where the voice was coming from.

"And I know you, as well, not that you were worthy of an invitation on your own." The voice raised, slightly as Artemis bumped into something that wasn't there. "Please do not fondle Andraste!"

Artemis flailed, hands colliding with the invisible object before he stepped back and out of its way. "Andraste?" he asked in a small voice.

"You just had your hand on her breast," the voice informed him, disapprovingly.

Artemis grimaced, rubbing his fingers together and eyeing the spot where the sculpture apparently was. "Then your Andraste is dusty. Can I just --?"

"Amatus, no." Fenris gently took Artie's hand. "I would like to draw the line at cleaning invisible objects."

"But..." Artemis allowed himself to be drawn away regardless.

"This is quite the place," Orana murmured, wandering around. All manner of odds and ends were displayed on top of and against the tables. Stacks of books filled the empty spaces.

"Yes, my collection is quite marvellous," the voice purred. "Centuries of legend have gone into these walls..."

"I don't mean to be rude, but... where are you?" Fenris finally asked.

There was a long pause. "I am right in front of you. Are you blind?" the voice demanded. "Perhaps I am not what you expected. I am undying, but this lifeless husk does me no favours. Urchin! Bring me a moist towelette."

The boy squeezed out from between the shelves and rushed up to the strange, leathery taxidermy-looking thing on the centre platform, with a damp cloth, blotting at any spot that failed to shine. Orana took the opportunity to examine the strange multiplicity of limbs and disjointed parts -- she thought it might once have been human.

Fenris looked nothing short of horrified. "How long have you been here? Was this Tevinter work?"

"Tevinter! Oh, you flatter me," the voice replied. "I am Xenon, an antiquarian, of sorts. I was a great name, in Kirkwall, once, but not so far back as that!"

Fenris glanced back at Artemis, who shrugged. They had never heard of him.

Orana let out a sharp gasp, a hand flying to her mouth, and Artemis and Fenris were at her side the next moment. Artie was about to ask her what was wrong, but he only had to follow her line of sight. He cursed, one hand twitching for his staff.

"Is that...?" Orana asked before trailing off.

"Meredith," Artemis finished. "Yeah." 

She looked exactly as she had the last time they saw her, a twisted figure on her knees in glowing red lyrium.

"Well, at least now we know she didn't walk off on her own," Fenris added. Over his shoulder, he addressed the desiccated creature on the dais. "Why do you have this?"

"Wouldn't you say that's a historic artefact?" Xenon retorted, chuckling. "I heard about what happened. I had her brought to me -- she's well-contained, as you can see, and in ways you can't see. She won't be contagious, here, but she's a lovely curiosity piece."

"She's a terrifying reminder of a battle I'd rather not remember." Fenris absently cradled his arm -- not that it hurt, but the memory of that slice ran down his nerves like a taunt.

"You were there?" Xenon's voice lifted, curiously. "Perhaps I misjudged your importance. You may purchase what suits you, but you must come in the company of Orana."

"We were there," Fenris confirmed. "We melted her golems in the streets, and brought an end to her reign."

"Not one of my fonder memories," Artemis added. "Except for the part where it ended. I'm not sure what purpose you have for her, but I'm a bit relieved to know where she ended up at least. No risk of her turning up again all glowy and vengeful and dead. Unless you do something. Please don't."

Xenon's disembodied cackle was disconcerting, the way it echoed. "I rather like her where she is, for the moment," he assured Artemis. "And she has made no efforts to escape."

Artie wasn't sure he appreciated the humour in Xenon's voice, but he followed his husband, who had wandered off to poke at a display of weapons on a nearby table.

Fenris tested the blade of a softly glowing dagger and turned to Orana. "No deadly frying pans on display, alas."

"Ours is deadly enough," Orana assured him, lifting the lid on a basket to reveal an assortment of mismatched socks, with a torn page inside the lid. "The lost socks of the Ansburg tower," she remarked, after studying the page. "Someone wrote a treatise on them."

"Close the lid, before Artemis notices," Fenris hissed, and Orana slapped the lid of the basket back down, moving on to another interesting-looking collection of things.

"The tears shed at the burning of Treviso? That's morose." Orana turned toward another jar. "Apples of Arlathan? Wouldn't those be thousands of years old?" She crouched and squinted into the side of the jar, at the perfectly rosy fruit floating within.

"Only five sovereigns for a taste!" Xenon declared. "They are the very best thing you could possibly consume, I'm told. I had a Chantry scholar in tears, some years ago, with the perfection of the flavour."

"That seems a bit expensive," Orana admitted, turning away, only to catch Fenris studying the jar with new interest.

"The very best apples in the history of Thedas?" Five sovereigns was quite a bit of money. More than two wedding goats or a night with Jethann -- which Fenris still wasn't sure why anyone would pay for. Jethann was an annoying so-and-so at the best of times. But, the best apples in Thedas might be worth it.

"Five sovereigns for a taste?" Artemis asked, noting the look in his husband's eyes. He almost never saw that look on Fenris. "Not for a whole apple?"

"Of course not the whole apple!" Xenon replied as though that should be obvious. "Arlathan isn't making any more, you know."

"Well... couldn't you just plant one and grow more?"

From Xenon's sigh, Artie suspected he wasn't the first person to make that suggestion. 

"I could, and it would grow into a perfectly lovely apple tree," Xenon rumbled. "But it does not have the same... quality."

"That is much too expensive," Fenris demurred, but Artie tugged him back.

"It's also a once in a lifetime opportunity," Artemis pointed out.

"Nonsense," Fenris pointed out. "Orana can bring me back any time." But his eyes lingered on the jar.

"Messere Fenris, you are going on a dangerous expedition to Ferelden, next summer," Orana started, but Fenris interrupted.

"Hardly that dangerous. We go to build, not to make war."

Orana rolled her eyes. "Bill the household, and I'll see it paid. He wants a taste."

"I am afraid we deal only in coin in this establishment." Xenon almost sounded regretful. "Urchin, if they have enough coin, serve them."

The boy scurried over to stand beside the jar, looking the three of them over, curiously, though his eyes lingered on Fenris.

"Right." Artemis fished into his pockets for the required amount and counted out the coins in his palm. Five was a good number, and he carried around five sovereigns exactly. Hopefully they wouldn't have the burning need to buy anything else here, at least not today.

The urchin accepted the coins without a word and slipped them into a coin purse by his belt. Still taking Fenris's measure, the urchin stepped up to the jar and cut off a thin slice from one apple. Certainly too thin to be five sovereigns' worth, but Artemis kept his complaints quiet. Without ceremony, the boy placed the slice into Fenris's hand.

"Thank... you?" Fenris said uncertainly, frowning down at the tiny bit of apple.

"Well, come on, is it very good, messere?" Orana looked on with excitement.

Fenris placed the sliver of apple on his tongue, and his joints locked, preventing him from falling as the unearthly essence of the fruit washed over him. It was beyond just a flavour -- it was like touching the Fade. The lyrium in his skin lit, a steady blue glow, more stable than it had been since the fight with Meredith, and he stood only half-there, revelling in the very nature of ... something he might once have been, had he been before he was, as the apple slowly disintegrated in the warmth of his mouth.

Once, there was an empire...

The flavour faded, and Fenris shook himself, looking down at his still-glowing hands. He didn't quite trust himself to speak.

"Messere?" Orana was still at his side.

"It was very good." Fenris's voice quavered at the admission, and he looked terribly out of sorts as he stopped the glow.

"All right?" Artemis asked, gently tweaking one of Fenris's ears before slipping an arm around his waist.

"Yes," Fenris said as though unsure of the answer. The lyrium lines still tingled, and he scratched at them.

"Worth the five sovereigns?" Artemis teased.

Fenris nodded, certain it was worth more than that. He squeezed the hand around his waist and shook his head as though to clear it. "So, Orana. This invitation was for you. Is there anything here that piques your interest?"

"Plenty," she replied, glancing around. "But nothing I would consider throwing money at, just yet, not unless I wanted to buy that hideous velvet portrait of King Cailan for Evie as a joke."

"The velvet Cailan has a sordid history that makes it a perfect gift. ... For someone you don't like. These were commissioned by the king, himself, to be sold in Denerim, following his coronation. A souvenir for the masses to hang in their bedrooms. Of course, it's terrible. Honestly, if you stroke the velvet, you can make him look just like one of his mabari -- Do not touch the velvet Cailan!" Xenon paused from the exertion of raising his disembodied voice. "This one was rescued from the flames of Mistress Blanchette de Lemoux, who has vowed to burn them, to the last. Another piece of Fereldan history stolen back from Orlesian hands."

"Not really 'back'. Just stolen," Fenris remarked, after a moment. "We are, after all, not in Ferelden. Or if we are, you have violated one of the fundamental laws of magic, as I have come to understand them, and I would be very interested in the method."

"It is no longer in Orlesian hands," Xenon conceded. "And it is certainly worth the price, with the bounty on its brothers and the death of the king."

Fenris regarded the velvet Cailan and resisted the urge to pet it. "The apple was the better buy," he assured Orana, who agreed even without tasting it.

"Makes for a great conversation piece, at least," Artie said. "As does the, uh... tiny bear." He had thought the bundle of fur had been a dog out of the corner of his eye, but... dogs were not shaped like that.

"He responds to the name 'Chauncey'," Xenon informed them. "Be careful; he nips."

Artemis pulled his hand back just in time to avoid experiencing that first hand. "This is... really quite the place." On his second attempt, Chauncey allowed Artie to scratch behind his ears.

"No, Amatus. We are not getting the tiny bear. One magical bear is enough."


	104. Chapter 104

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samson is sick and angry. Cassandra brings her concerns to Cullen.

Of course, Commander Cullen had taken the afternoon to pay his respects to the viscount. Of course he had. Cassandra had come prepared to discuss the finer points of his experiment, this time armed with documentation of the actions taken by the Chantry in other difficult times, but no, the commander was 'paying his respects' to the viscount, the fashion of which she had some thoughts on, having met that viscount.

As she passed the door to one of the Tranquil workrooms, she could hear a distinctly untranquil voice raised in irritation.

"And I'm telling you, this tea isn't even working! Oh, yeah, I'm probably pissing spring water, by now, but is it helping? Of course it's not. I still feel like I've been trampled by an oxcart full of guardsmen!"

Cassandra stepped into the room to point out that shouting at the Tranquil rarely achieved anything, but the templar raising his voice was sitting on the end of the workbench the Tranquil worked at, leaning heavily against the wall behind it. He didn't seem to be in condition to have made it there alone, nevermind to do anything with his temper.

"Ah, Maddox," the templar sighed. "It's not working. Who's going to take care of you when I'm gone?"

"Commander Cullen takes very good care of all of us. We are healthy and well fed. We work efficiently." The tranquil, Maddox, apparently, didn't look up from his work, where he cleaned out the lines of a rune in preparation to pour in the lyrium.

"Who're you?" The templar suddenly demanded, his eyes landing on Cassandra. He poured himself heavily off the workbench and to his feet, grabbing at his sword. "You don't belong in here."

"On the contrary. I am a Seeker of Truth. No door is closed to me that has a templar behind it." Cassandra took him in, the raw determination in the way he held his sword, the sweat already beading on his forehead from the effort of standing. This man had, at one time, been a force to be reckoned with. But, now... "My name is Cassandra Pentaghast, and you seem unwell. Should I call for a healer?"

Samson barked out a laugh, lowering his sword but making no move to put it down. "No, no, they'd just sit down and make me drink some more tea, and I've already pissed enough today to fill the Waking Sea. Not much to be done beyond that."

Cassandra wasn't quite sure what to make of that. "I won't make you drink tea, but perhaps you should sit down, at least."

Samson harrumphed but sank back onto the workbench, more heavily than he'd meant to. "So what brings a Seeker of Truth to this shithole?" he asked, resting his sword across his lap.

Cassandra considered dressing him down for his tone, but he already had the look of a beaten man. "My business in Kirkwall is my own," she replied, "but I came here to meet with your commander, only to find him absent."

"He does that." Samson laughed, then coughed. "Not when it's really important, but ... I don't think he ever wanted to be Knight-Commander. But, this place was so fucked up, pardon my Fereldan, he didn't really have much of a choice. He's the best we've got, and he's a lot better than anything the Order's managed to give us in a lot of years. You heard the stories about Guylian, right? He's trying to live up to Guylian's legacy and then some. Except, you know, he got married. I heard there was a goat. It's some Fereldan thing, I guess -- they're both from tiny little towns in bumfuck Ferelden. His husband _barks_."

"Yes, I've met the viscount. He does seem a bit Fereldan, at times." Cassandra examined a table full of recently-finished pieces of armour. "Your illness... what is it? Some demon's curse, that the healers cannot help you? I have heard that Kirkwall has some demon problems, moreso than most cities in Thedas by far."

"Demons?" Samson nearly coughed himself sick, with laughter, stopping only when Maddox pressed a glass into his free hand.

"Drink this. It is for your cough."

Samson sighed and poured half of it down his throat, before he went on. "No, no demons, this time. This one's a special gift from the Chantry. I'm too old for this shit. It's the lyrium catching up with me."

The furrows in Cassandra's forehead smoothed over, and she nodded in understanding. "I see," she said, not without pity. "Such are the sacrifices a templar makes. We are all called to make sacrifices."

" _Sacrifices_?" Samson's smile failed to soften his sharp tone. "And what the fuck do you know about our sacrifices, Seeker?"

Cassandra stiffened. "I was just--"

"Unless the next word is 'leaving', I don't want to hear it," Samson barked. "If you want to talk about sacrifices, ask Maddox here." He gestured at the Tranquil, one hand still tight on his sword.

"The healers said not to stress yourself," Maddox reminded Samson in a monotone voice. "Do not concern yourself."

"Maddox, don't you remember...?" Samson's voice softened, for a moment, and then he turned on Cassandra again. "Of course he does. He remembers everything. He just can't care any more. He loved a woman who loved him, and I used to read his letters and think maybe, one day, I'd have someone who loved me like that."

"Mages can't--"

"Mages piking well can! And they do! And they should! Do you know what keeps a man from becoming a monster? Love and respect! Maker knows it would've done either of us some good,"  Samson roared, the veins nearly glowing in his sickly-pale face.

"Did they really keep him from becoming a monster? He's Tranquil. That isn't for nothing." Cassandra folded her arms in a way that would let her block the first strike while drawing her sword.

"Do you know the law we are meant to uphold? That was once a _Harrowed mage_! He was made Tranquil because he was _in love_!" Samson's armour creaked as his shoulders began to shake. "And this is why we forgive the Commander his long lunches and his nights at home! He believes we are all the Maker's children, just as it's written in the Chant! Not some twisted, sideways pile of nugshit used to turn us all into savages; the Chant is supposed to be uplifting! It's supposed to make us want to be better than we are, not -- not this! Not what went on here! And I'm not sorry the sodding useless Grand Cleric had a building fall on her, either! She was supposed to be looking out for us and the only thing she was looking out for was the Chantry's coffers! You want to find some truth? Go dig through the shit she sold us all!"

Cassandra kept her voice steady. "Don't you think that wishing death on a Grand Cleric is a bit far--?"

"No! I think _that_ is a bit far!" Samson jabbed a finger in Maddox's direction.

"I am fine, Samson," Maddox assured him, still in that colourless voice. "There is no need to be upset on my behalf."

"You are not fine," Samson said, more tired, more sad, than angry. "But you don't know that, do you?" Samson sagged back against the wall.

Cassandra looked him over, considered the dark shadows under his eyes, the gaunt cut of his cheeks. She wanted to argue, was building up for it, but the man was already barely keeping himself together. "It was not my intention to upset you," she said instead, neutrally, carefully. "I will perhaps wait for your commander elsewhere."

"You do that," Samson sneered.

* * *

When Cullen returned from taking ... 'lunch' with the viscount, he found Cassandra leaning on the wall beside his door, reading something with a brown paper cover on it. She looked quite absorbed, and he might have left her undisturbed, if he could've gotten to the door without passing within inches of her elbow.

"Seeker! I'm sorry if you've been waiting. I had, er... a lunch meeting." He opened the door and stepped past her into the office, which appeared much the way he'd left it, to his relief. Of course, he'd just been with Anton, so there were a limited number of people who would dare...

"Yes, I heard." Cassandra's eyebrow drifted up as she read one last line and closed the book, laying a piercing look on Cullen, who blushed promptly. "I am here for other reasons, but I wish to discuss one of your templars. I fear he is unstable, and it may be best to retire him to Val Royeaux."

"You're telling me I missed one?" Cullen asked, waving Cassandra into the room. "You must have heard about the number I sent back when I took office."

"I have heard, yes," Cassandra answered, following him into the office but not taking the seat he offered. "Meredith's tactics were... extreme, and you made a wise decision. I am here about -- well, he never told me his name, but I asked one of the mages in the area, and she called him 'Samson'. He is ill from lyrium consumption."

The colour drained from Cullen's face. "...ah."

Cassandra pinned him with a look. "You are not surprised." A statement, not a question.

"No. Well, yes. Sort of. He's fine, really. Except for the part where he's not fine at all, physically. He's just been through a lot."

"He is not fine," Cassandra assured him. "He is unstable and _angry_. The reckless kind of angry, and I do not think he is safe to have around here."

"The man has a right to be angry, after what he's been through. As did I, once." Cullen shook his head. "He's a crabby old man, but he's got a good heart, and neither of those things interferes with his ability to do his job. He's just returned from a special assignment in the South, and he's a little out of sorts between that and this sickness."

"He said the sickness was the lyrium." Cassandra looked curious.

"It is, but not the way you think. It's not our lyrium that made him sick. He was scrounging for raw dwarf dust for almost a decade. The chantry lyrium is a lot cleaner. He's not lyrium mad, it's just... physical." Cullen shook his head, again, this time looking twice as tired. "We're doing what we can, but after what Meredith did to him, the last place he belongs is Val Royeaux."

"The man I saw can barely hold his sword," Cassandra argued. "It's not safe to depend on him, in this condition."

"It's why he's on light duty. He can still sling a smite with the best of us, even when he can't get to the mess hall without help. He's one of our trainers, if you can imagine that." Cullen laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. "The recruits are used to him. He's good at what he does, and I will not let him out of our care, unless it's to a healer trained in Kinloch Hold."

Cassandra pursed her lips, but she was at least taking a moment to consider his words. "I still do not like it," she said with a shake of her head, "but that is not my call to make, not today. Still, you understand why I am concerned."

"Of course."

"Then I hope my concerns are unfounded," Cassandra offered diplomatically. "And not just my concerns about Ser Samson. I originally came here today to discuss the 'Kirkwall Experiment', and you will find that I have quite a few suggestions."

Finally, Cassandra took a seat, and as Cullen took his, he tried not to groan.


	105. (Winter 9:39-9:40)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feynriel returns from Tevinter to see what's become of the place and the people he left behind.

The docks were, as docks tended to be, in Fenris's experience, foul and damp. Worse, still, it was late enough in the year that the seaside had started to get chilly. He bristled at the influx of Tevinter fashion off one of the ships, and prepared himself to say something inexcusably rude to the young man in the orange robes who kept staring at him.

"I still can't believe she bought that painting," Fenris grumbled to his companions, tucking his hands under his arms for warmth.

"Did she really?" Theron asked. "The velvet one that made Cailan look like a mabari?"

"The very one." Fenris gestured in disgust and then jammed his hands back into his armpits.

"I'd always heard King Calilan was a very handsome man!" Merrill protested, squinting into the crowd for any faces she recognised. Unfortunately, none of them looked like the long-necked elf of her dreams.

"He may have been," Fenris conceded, "but that painting was terrible."

Finally the young man in the orange robes approached. "Artemis? Is it really you? You look ... different." Older. Happier. Substantially less blood-covered and distressed.

Artemis peered at the young man, the long chin and almond eyes coalescing into a familiar face. "Feynriel?" He looked older, the angles of his faces more defined, but his smile was just as honest. Artemis pulled Feynriel into a hug and clapped him on the back. "It's good to see you! And -- wait, what do you mean, 'different'? Good different? Bad different?"

"Good different," Feynriel laughed. 

"Meaning I was bad different before?"

Fenris took one hand out from under his armpit long enough to shake Feynriel's hand. "Ignore him," Fenris advised Feynriel with mock exasperation, bumping Artemis with his shoulder.

"You're Feynriel?" Merrill asked, tilting her head. "You look different from the dreams. Oh, wait, I'm being rude, aren't I? I'm Merrill. We haven't met, except for that dream where we sort of did. Does that count? I'm not sure that counts."

"It is good to meet you in person, Merrill," Feynriel replied, earnest. "I've heard so much about you."

"Not too much about her, I hope," Theron joked. "Like that one time--"

Merrill elbowed him firmly in the bladder. "Oh! I'm so sorry! I didn't even realise you were standing so close!"

"It's fine," Theron croaked, holding onto his own thighs for balance. "Hi. I'm Theron. And one of these days I'll be Hahren of the Sabrae clan. You, ah... you don't look that much like your mother, do you?"

"Don't be rude," Fenris sighed. "I'm afraid the rest of us couldn't make it. Isabela's ... somewhere." He gestured toward the sea. "And magey and magier took a holiday some years ago."

Feynriel counted on his fingers. "No, there was only one other mage. And a spirit. Justice, right? I've gotten a lot more familiar with spirits, but I haven't been able to find that one again."

"That's because that spirit is a mage. Or, is in a mage? Something. I never quite understood what those two had. But, you're looking for a spirit, when what you'd probably find is a man dreaming." Fenris paused and shrugged, breathing on his hands to warm them. "I think. I always got the impression Justice couldn't reach the Fade any longer. But, I'm not a mage, so what would I know?"

"Yeah, he's some kind of super templar," Theron joked.

"Only instead of smiting you, he reaches into your chest and tears out your heart," Artemis said matter-of-factly.

"Hence the 'super' part," Theron added sagely.

"Oh." Feynriel blinked, smiling as though unsure if he should. "Well, that's certainly a more... violent approach."

"Don't worry," Artemis assured him. "Sometimes his heart-stealing is purely metaphorical." He punctuated this statement with an exaggerated wink at his husband, who regarded him with some amusement and only a little pity.

"That is one of the cheesiest lines I've ever heard," Fenris drawled, "and I've heard Theron flirt."

"And yet, you still let me get into your pants."

Merrill shook her head at them in exasperation and exchanged a look with Feynriel. "Welcome back to Kirkwall. You should see the Alienage now that it's been rebuilt!"

"I should. I've seen Minrathous, and ... the Alienage was the first thing I thought of. Half the buildings looked like they were held up by magic alone, and then I found out they _were_. So, if there's been rebuilding, maybe that's an idea I can take back with me, someday." Feynriel offered a wry smile. "What's happened to my mother's house?"

"First, I should tell you that your mother lives up on Sundermount," Theron assured him, tossing an arm around Feynriel's much higher shoulders, as they made their way toward the city. "But, there's nothing except the Vhenadahl left of the Alienage you grew up in. It's all been torn down, rebuilt from the ground up by a team of dwarven engineers. No more creaking walls. No more wind blowing through broken windows. Plants everywhere. it's gorgeous. It's so gorgeous I bribed Artie with--"

"I think we know what you bribed him with." Fenris sounded amused, but the tilt of his eyebrow promised violence.

"Bribed him with exotic delights --" Theron stuck out his tongue. "-- until he brought his team up to Sundermount, to rebuild from the ruins, up there. It's incredible. And we're going to Gwaren, next year, to rebuild some more ruins there. Your mother's people return triumphant!"

"That is excellent news, all of it," Feynriel replied. "When I heard of the fighting, of the Chantry exploding, and Meredith..." He shook his head. "I was worried. For my mother, for everyone. I hated being so far away."

"It was the right choice," Artie assured him. "At the very least, it kept you out of Meredith's sights."

"It's what I keep telling myself, but..." Feynriel trailed off, allowing himself to be led through the docks, his feet remembering the route. This part of the city had never been quite the same after the Qunari attacked, but it was familiar enough. To Feynriel it was like stepping back in time. "Anyway, what I meant to say was, I'm glad you took the destruction as an excuse to make something better. At least, I assume it's better. That's what Mother tells me."

He didn't say what was on his mind, that it was bittersweet knowing that he could never go back to the home he had left behind.

* * *

"So, I didn't want to say anything, but you looked very strange in my dreams," Merrill said, layering a slice of cake with thick cream, before setting it in front of Feynriel. "I couldn't tell if I was just having trouble seeing you from so far away, or...?"

Feynriel laughed. "I forget you haven't seen what I've seen. Or maybe you have. Before the Dales, when we were everywhere, we made mosaics of the gods. Those are the oldest images I've found of elves, and... if there's anything Tevinter has made me want to be, it's an elf, as we once were. So, in dreams, I've been trying to look more like the ancient pictures."

"Oh, I've seen some in Orlais. Not the mosaics, but the paintings from the Dales. I always thought the proportions were a little strange." Merrill tapped her lip and then handed Fenris a slice of cake.

"It's because they are strange," Theron argued, around a bite of cake, a smear of cream at the corner of his mouth. "They're really exaggerated. I've seen those same ones, when we came back from the Arlathvhen, that time."

"I don't know that they are as exaggerated as they seem." Feynriel paused, trying to figure out where to begin, and took a bite of the cake. "This is amazing. Did you make it?"

"It's the bakery around the corner from the last of the red lanterns," Fenris cut in. "I'd recognise that taste anywhere."

Merrill pointed at Fenris with a smile.

"Wow. I never thought I'd be eating cake from Hightown." Feynriel offered a crooked smile. "But, the mosaics... they're... I spend a lot of time exploring the Fade, particularly at important historical sites in Tevinter. I've got a grant from the circle in Vyrantium to do historical research and correct the gaps in the nation's history. But, when you go to a place where there was a battle, or a celebration with thousands of people, and now it's abandoned, there are spirits there, and they do... basically plays of the most exciting parts. And the elves seem... They don't look like you or mother. They're longer, wispier, like condensed spirits. And I'd think it's because they're played by spirits, if the humans didn't look so different."

"So you think that's what the elvhen used to look like?" Merrill asked, leaning forward over her cake. "How strange. I had always thought it was an artistic style."

"It's just a theory," Feynriel said with a self-conscious shrug. "It's not like I can go back and take a look myself. But I rather like the look and thought I might keep it."

While they were talking, Artemis tried to draw Theron's attention to the bit of cream at the corner of his mouth. He used gestures, trying to be subtle about it so as not to interrupt the conversation, but then Fenris cut in.

"Theron, there is cream on your face, and it is bothering my husband." 

Theron paused to swallow his bit of cake. "Well, then he's welcome to lick it off." He grinned at Artemis only to find a cloth napkin thrown into his face. "What? It never bothers him when I get cream on _his_ face."

Artie wished someone would throw a napkin on his face too, just to hide behind. "Not in front of _company_ , Theron!" he choked out.

"And he's going to be the Hahren, one day," Fenris sighed. "I am so glad I live in the city."

Feynriel watched the whole thing unfold with utter bafflement. "You're... his husband? And Theron's Dalish... Is this how the nobility of Kirkwall still sees elves? I had heard things had changed!"

Merrill's eyes widened. "No! No. It's not like that at all! It is... actually, very much the opposite of what you're thinking."

"Theron's wife and I have come to appreciate each other, as well, if perhaps not quite as... thoroughly," Fenris explained, staring intently at the ceiling over his head. "Artemis has done no insult to me nor to your mother's clan."

Feynriel looked around the table, still confused. "Tevinter," he finally admitted. "I wasn't really old enough, here, and there..."

"I know what there is like," Fenris assured him. "And it is not what we have here, in Kirkwall. Council willing, we never will."

Artemis stared down at the table, determinedly avoiding Feynriel's eyes. He gestured at the elves around the table. "What they said."

Feynriel looked less concerned though no less confused. 

"So, cake!" Artemis said a little too loudly. He set to spearing another bite on his fork. "This cake really is delicious. Is it an apple cream? I love apple cream."

Fenris hummed in polite agreement. He had had this bakery's apple cream before, but it just didn't taste the same as he was used to. Or, he realised, it tasted the same, but he had come to expect and long for something richer. "Delicious, yes, though I'm afraid nothing compares to Xenon's apples."

Theron arched an eyebrow. "Who is Xenon, and why have you been tasting his apples?" he teased.

Fenris huffed and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. "He is the proprietor of a... shop I cannot speak of, but one of the things he has is the last apples of Arlathan, preserved. I will likely never appreciate an apple properly again."

"Apples from Arlathan? That's got to be shit. It's a spell cast on Tantervales or something, right?" Theron looked to Artemis for confirmation.

"I don't know," Artemis hedged. "This... man, if he can still be called such, had the most remarkable things. He called himself an antiquarian." He thought of red lyrium Meredith, caged, and considered mentioning it, only to think better of it. "He invited Orana down to his shop, and we accompanied her to make sure she wouldn't run into any trouble."

"The apples... I am certain they are something unusual," Fenris admitted, pausing for another bite of cake. "But, I do not know of spells that can give you visions with no rune in sight, nor of apples that taste like that. Imagine, if you will, the ideal essence of an apple. A spirit of apple, if such a thing were real, that could touch your tongue and pass on its memories and its taste. I saw strange things in Tevinter, but never that."

Feynriel rocked his chair back and rubbed his chin. "I could conceive of it, but I don't see the point in going to the effort to make it. If you're going to do that, why make it edible?"

"Because you can sell it for five sovereigns a slice," Fenris replied, still looking at his cake, as the corner of his mouth turned up.

"Five sovereigns? A decent slice, then!" Feynriel's chair clacked back to the stone floor.

"Barely a fingernail, and entirely worth the price." Fenris took another bite, and continued, mouth full. "If it is fake, I want to know what it is. If it is real... I want to present it to someone who is yet more elf than I, and possibly a mage. There is something there, but I..." Fenris held up his hand and the lyrium flickered to life, not as stable as it had been in Xenon's shop, but still more stable than it had been before that. He closed his hand and the light went out of it. "I do not have what is needed. Someone else will. Either way, they are a thing I would like to reproduce. Xenon's assertions that he has tried to do just that aside. Perhaps it is simply that he is not an elf. That he, too, lacks what is needed."

Merrill leaned forward, cake forgotten. "And where is this shop? Is it here in Kirkwall?"

"Tucked away in the sewers," Artemis told her before promptly trying to forget that fact. "It was almost impossible to find. And you have to be invited to be let in or... be with someone who was invited, I guess. I still can't believe it was under us the whole time."

"I am certain Orana would be happy to take you, if you are curious," Fenris said, still poking at his cake. "Perhaps she would like to find something to go with the furry portrait of Cailan."

Feynriel blinked. "Furry portrait?"

"It was painted on velvet," Artie sighed. "I still can't believe she bought it."

"Evie likes it," Fenris said, shrugging. "Especially the part where you can make him look like a mabari."

Feynriel stared, waiting for a punchline.

"I think they're serious," Theron whispered loudly, leaning over the table. "I heard them talking about it on the docks."

Feynriel shot Theron a dismayed look, then turned his head to study Fenris. "Why do you think I'm more of an elf than you are?" He flicked his own round ear as punctuation.

"I don't. I think she is." Fenris pointed to Merrill. "But, if you are intentionally seeking history in the Fade, those apples might tell you more than they told me." He looked at his hand again. "I met a golem, once, at a party. It called me a flesh-golem. In the end, I think that's a much better description than elf." He smiled slyly at Feynriel. "But, I'm not the one with the round ears."

Feynriel tugged at one of his ears, self-consciously, thumb tracing the curve that came to a barely discernible point. "But... the clan will still take me, right? Merrill, I'm sorry for not showing you my true form in the Fade, but you have to know I'm more elf in spirit than I look--"

"Of course we'll take you," Theron cut in before Feynriel could get any more worked up. "We'd be lucky to have you. That was never in question. Just... be ready to deal with a couple of thick-headed idiots who might not realise that right away."

"Junar," Artemis muttered down into his cake, or at least at what was left of it. "Watch out for Junar. He's an asshole."

Theron bit back a laugh. "Oh, he's not so bad!"

"He called me a halla!" Artie protested. "He's an asshole!"

Feynriel leaned forward to get a better look at Artemis. "A ... halla? It's... He's ... Why, does he pull carts? There's no resemblance, otherwise."

"He's fluffy and horny," Fenris filled in, rolling his eyes, and Feynriel choked on a bite of cake.

"An old friend of ours was a lot less fond of humans." Theron shrugged. "What's it been, twenty years, now? You'd think they'd find something new to call him."

"Possibly his _name_?" Feynriel suggested, tugging his hair down over the tips of his ears.

"Your mother will speak for you. You're going to be fine," Merrill assured Feynriel, reaching over to pat his hand. "People really do remember you're an elf. Your mother lives with the clan, and no one's going to question that she's an elf, so you must be one, too."

"Not enough one to be Keeper, unfortunately," Theron cut in. "That's... you have to be entirely in the line of the blood of the elven heart, which is completely redundant, but there it is. But, one of the girls just started showing some signs, so maybe we're not out, yet. And Fenris's sister is living with us. She's twice the elf he is, and several more things, to listen to Paivel talk. And a mage. But, she's ... I don't think she wants to be Keeper. She doesn't really know what one is."

"Just what the Marches need. My sister as the ruler of the first elven settlement since the Dales." Fenris rolled his eyes again.

"Better your sister than mine," Artemis muttered.

Fenris sent him a flat look. "Your sister is the princess of Starkhaven. I think that is worse."

"Yes, but Starkhaven is farther away. We are out of danger."

Fenris chuckled, and Feynriel looked back and forth between them as though unsure if they were joking.

"You are a somniari," Fenris reminded Feynriel. "No matter how elfy you are, that makes you a good ally and a bad enemy to make." His grin turned sharp. "You could always remind them of this if anyone gives you any trouble."

"That's--!" Merrill sputtered, turning a disapproving look in Fenris's direction. "Fenris, don't encourage him to terrify his clan mates with magic! That is really not the sort of thing we do!"

Fenris shrugged. "In my experience, the threat of magic is often enough."

"Your experience is mostly Tevinter," Theron reminded him.

"So is his." Fenris smiled, faintly. "It should come easily."

"I am not in the habit of ... terrifying people who annoy me!" Feynriel's hands fluttered before him.

"Only those who threaten you?" Fenris asked, with a wry hike of one eyebrow and a sidelong glance.

"Well, obviously. And they could do with a bit of terror from time to time." Feynriel paused, eyes widening. "Wait, I knew it! I have seen you before! Again... whatever. After I left here."

"Danarius. Yes. And I terrified him right to death." Fenris's smile was proud.

"I think there was a lot more violence than terror in his death," Merrill commented, after a moment's thought. "That was a lot of blood."

"It looked much better on the ground than it did on him," Theron assured Fenris.

"That's also why my sister will not be the Keeper. Bringing Danarius to my wedding was not among her more friendly decisions." Fenris sighed. "Sisters..."

"Welcome to Kirkwall," Theron added, gesturing at Fenris.


	106. Chapter 106

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charade has a plan to do away with the floral stench of Lady Frisshell's letters. Bethany and Nathaniel suffer at the far end of it.

When Charade plucked the letter from Jenet's hand, he half hoped she wouldn't read it. His father was less than subtle, after all, no matter how cloyingly polite the note had been, and Charade didn't need to see the list of eligible ladies his father was reminding him existed. Then again, she would probably be amused, and --

Charade didn't read the letter. She tossed it aside and leaned over his desk, a hand in his tunic pulling him into a kiss. "Miss me?" she purred, and Jenet gave half a thought to the open door.

"Yes." He cleared his throat when his voice came out pinched. "Very much so."

She grinned, leaning in for another kiss while half sitting on the desk, only to still and lean back after a quick press of lips. Charade's brow furrowed, and she sniffed the air. Jenet made a questioning sound in the back of his throat.

"Sweet Maker, what is that _smell_?" she asked, slipping off the desk again, and Jenet's hands made an abortive motion to keep her there.

"It's... oh." Jenet laughed self-consciously, sitting back in his chair. "I was just handling the mail. Lady Frisshell sends her regards." He plucked up the offending missive and waved it in the air. Charade's eyes watered at the stink of perfume.

"Funny you should mention Lady Frisshell... I was just on my way to ask you if you'd like to help me make that stop." Charade pinched her nose and gestured toward the letters.

"Make her stop sending letters? As if you cou-- wait. You can't just kill her." Jenet looked doubtfully up at the beautiful woman before him. Beautiful murdering thief, according to his father, but it wasn't like much better could be said of the viscount, from what he'd heard.

"Kill her? That's no fun." Charade brushed the idea aside and brushed the pile of letters into the wastebin beside the desk, as she raised one knee to perch on it again. "No, no. I have some friends still on her estate who have a mind to dispose of her infernal perfume. It should buy you a few months peace, while she scrambles to replace it."

"That sounds like an incredible relief to all the nobility of the Marches," Jenet admitted, still confused. "But, you said you wanted my help? I don't understand."

"Rumour has it that you took with you a key to her desk, when you left. There are a very small number of those keys. None of my friends have one, but she keeps the perfumes for her letters in that desk." Charade smiled wickedly. "Come on, you'll be doing a favour to the Royal Family and every noble house in the land."

"Well, when you put it like that..." Jenet grinned, twisting one of her curls around his finger. "But you will have to do a favour for me, first."

"Oh?" Charade quirked an eyebrow and looked him up and down. "And what could that possibly be?"

"You are going to help me stash that stinking letter somewhere in Nathaniel's office."

"Where he can smell it but not see it?" Charade's face lit with a smile. "Naughty." She leaned forward to whisper her answer against his lips. "You have a deal."

* * *

Nathaniel caught Jenet in the hall, heading for the kitchens after a long meeting. "You have to stop having your unspeakable interludes on my desk."

"What!?" Jenet stopped in the middle of the hall, drawing looks from a servant and a few passing courtiers. "I am not having unspeakable interludes in your office! I was only in there long enough to pass on the mail! You have a letter from Lady Cousland, if you want to talk about unspeakable. Maker's breath, I didn't think half of that was even possible."

"Then why does my office smell of slightly-used perfume?" Nathaniel struggled with the flush he was sure had crept up his neck at the thought of the sort of things Elissa tended to write. Half a day for 'headaches', he thought, at the warmth that sunk straight through him.

"That's... uh... Perhaps you should ask Lady Cousland." Jenet thought he had recovered rather well, considering he hadn't expected Nathaniel to come to _that_ conclusion.

"I did ask Lady Cousland," Nathaniel drawled. "Or rather, she asked me. I believe her exact words were, 'Did something die in your office?'"

"She's here? Already?"

Nathaniel shrugged. "Have you seen the post in Ferelden?"

"Well, I can assure you that my... friend does not wear perfume," Jenet said, aware that Nathaniel knew exactly how 'friendly' he and Charade were. "Regardless, we spent the morning in _my_ office and left yours undisturbed." Mostly.

Nathaniel folded his arms across his chest and stared Jenet down. "I imagine your office wouldn't smell like perfume, then. The same perfume, in fact."

"...ah." Jenet floundered. It seemed nothing short of magic would get the stink out of his office.

"And if you were already in your office, what inspired you to use mine?" Nathaniel actually began to look mildly irate, as opposed to his usual level of cranky.

"We didn't!" Jenet protested again. "Maker! That was once! I was quite drunk!"

The courtiers whispered to each other in the shadow of a doorway.

"Just keep that woman's eye-bleeding perfume out of my office! And your underclothes off my bookshelf!" Nathaniel barked, storming off down the hall.

Jenet cleared his throat and addressed everyone who'd stopped to listen, without taking his eyes off Nathaniel's retreating back. "Don't mind him. He's Fereldan."

Nathaniel offered a single-finger salute, over his shoulder, and kept walking.

* * *

A knock on the door interrupted the nap Nathaniel hadn't realised he was taking. He sat straight up at his desk and swatted away the paper that stuck to his cheek, cursing Elissa for making him stay up all night and also hoping that she would do it again tonight.

"Come in," he called out, rubbing his cheek where he knew the desk's surface had left lines. He wondered what it said about him that he recognised Bethany's knock.

Bethany pushed her way inside. "Nathaniel," she said, brandishing a letter. "You know people. Can you tell me why this letter smells like horse shit?" She tossed it to his desk, and Nathaniel recoiled.

"Oh, what? Don't put that on my desk!" The stink was overpowering, like being in a stable, and Nathaniel wondered who would dare pay the princess such an insult.

"It's from Lady Frisshell," Bethany explained, bringing her handkerchief up to her nose. "I know she was interested in Sebastian, but this seems..."

Nathaniel leapt out of his chair and threw open the window. Frisshell, of course. The perfumed-- There was another letter, and it was somewhere in his office. And he might have owed Jenet an apology, but that wasn't going to happen until he was quite certain the man wasn't indulging his passions on top of the latest trade-route maps. After a few deep breaths, Nathaniel returned to the desk and considered the letter.

"What does she say in it? Even for Frisshell, this seems extreme. It's usually flowers, not ... _poo_." He held the end of his sleeve over his nose and mouth.

"I don't know! I wasn't about to open that when it's already foul!" Bethany protested. "But, flowers? You don't think maybe this just sat in a post stable too long do you? How long would it need to be there to take on a stink like that? And with paper!"

Nathaniel prodded at the seal with his letter opener. "Regardless, that is her seal. It's very definitely her household, if not her. I wonder if this is some new thing, if someone has convinced her that horse manure is the new Antivan scent of the season."

"If she's that gullible, I'm sure I'll find a use for it at some point," Bethany said, voice muffled by the handkerchief. "But, I suppose, we should at least open the letter and give it a look."

"Right." Nathaniel waited for her to snatch it back up, but Bethany merely looked at him expectantly. "It's your letter!"

"You have a letter opener!" Bethany pointed out. "Besides, aren't you concerned for the princess's welfare?" She batted her eyelashes.

"I've found that the princess can take care of herself," Nathaniel grumbled. He tried to slice the letter open one-handed, his other hand holding a sleeve to his nose, but the seal was stubborn. "This is ridiculous. Let's just burn it and pretend like the letter never arrived."

"I don't think burning it would help with the smell," Bethany pointed out.

"Fine," Nathaniel huffed, sleeve still tight against his face. "Put a finger on the edge so I can wedge off the seal, and we'll see. And hopefully, we'll both keep breathing."

"You've opened the window," Bethany reminded him, pressing her fingertips to the folded edge of the letter.

"Andraste's blessings on us both," Nathaniel muttered, wedging the letter opener under the seal and prying it off. There was no sudden change in the room, and he gently nudged the edges of the letter apart. "To the Prince and Princess-Consort: It has been brought be--" 

The first breeze from the window lifted the scent from the inside of the letter and distributed it through the room, leaving Nathaniel gasping for air as he lunged for the window, Bethany close behind him. Their elbows slammed together as they threw themselves at an opening wide enough for one but not two, and eventually, after a bit of shoving and shifting, Nathaniel found himself hanging backward out the window by his knees with the Princess-Consort of Starkhaven standing between his legs, leaning out across his thighs, both of them panting.

"I think we should throw it out the window," Nathaniel decided, as the cool and horseshit-free breeze buffeted his face. "Toss it into the yard and be done with it. Or at the least, it shouldn't be opened inside."

"We're tossing it," Bethany decided, voice strangled as she fought not to breathe through her nose. "I don't care if that letter holds the key to immortal life. It's just not worth it."

Nathaniel wasn't going to argue. "Go on, then."

"Me? You do it!"

Nathaniel tipped his head up enough to give her a flat look, drawing both their attention to just how closely they were fitted together. With a heavy sigh, Nathaniel levered himself up until he was vertical again, wrapping an arm around Bethany's waist so that they wouldn't get any more tangled and so he wouldn't knock her over. He pretended not to notice how all the curves and angles of her body felt against his and slipped away.

"This was not the job I signed up for," Nathaniel grumbled, holding his breath just long enough for him to defenestrate the letter.

"Mmm," Bethany agreed, handkerchief pressed to her nose again, as she waited for the stench to clear. "Though, as I recall, you didn't sign up at all. I believe you were drafted."

"Story of my life," Nathaniel retorted leaning back against the bottom of the open window. "I didn't want to be a knight; I didn't want to be a Warden; I didn't want to become one of the Royal Advisors of Starkhaven -- I just wanted to marry my fiancée and perhaps, just maybe, to be the Arl of Amaranthine. Didn't really want to be the Arl, either. My sister's better for it."

"And yet, here you are." Bethany nudged him aside less frantically, this time, to put herself closer to the window. "Right where I always wanted to be. From the moment I first saw Sebastian screaming bloody murder in front of the Chantry, and I understood the opportunity he presented, I found him irresistible. An irresistible idiot, at times, but still irresistible."

"However strongly he may resist his husbandly duties." Nathaniel snorted. "I'm assuming the two of you have sorted things out, since neither of you have woken me up in the middle of the night, lately?"

"We've had a pillow made, the length of the bed. He has his side, and I have mine. He'll get over himself in time. He's already kissing me goodnight, again." Bethany tucked the handkerchief into her sleeve and leaned a bit further out the narrow window. "I do wish Messere Zevran had stayed another week, all the same. I'm certain my cousin wouldn't have minded."

Nathaniel dug his fingers into his forehead and shook his head. "A pillow." Really, Sebastian? Nathaniel stepped closer to the window, breathing in the cleaner air over Bethany's shoulder, close enough to touch, though they didn't.

"It is a rather nice pillow," Bethany said, tossing a smirk over her shoulder. "One I am sure we won't always need."

Nathaniel frowned, about to respond when Sebastian's voice drifted up from below.

"Blessed Andraste, what is that _stench_?"

And then Bethany turned to stifle a laugh against Nathaniel's shoulder.


	107. Chapter 107

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First Enchanter Tim meets with Exquisitor, to discuss the spirit's research.

"And you're sure it's not a demon?" the First Enchanter asked again, adjusting the horns on his ever-present hat, as the group travelled through the halls beneath the city.

Carver shook his head. "I'm not sure of anything, but it isn't acting like a demon. It was more upset at being interrupted than anything. It didn't offer anything, didn't demand anything, and didn't attack us."

"Considering we blew the door off its living room, it was really pretty restrained," Keran pointed out, rubbing the back of his neck. "It wants somebody to report back to. It's very confused about the magisters being gone."

"Exquisitor has been researching the Fade, since Kirkwall was still an Imperial city," Merrill chimed in, gesturing with a roll of pages full of questions she wanted to ask. "I haven't known very many demons who would keep working on something for hundreds of years after the deaths of their summoners. Most of them get their own ideas, even if they're still bound."

First Enchanter Tim still did not look terribly reassured, but he nodded anyway.

"This is the door," Carver said, gesturing the rest of the group over. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised to see it patched up and back in place, considering the fuss the Exquisitor had made about his privacy. 

"We should probably have someone other than Alain open it this time," Keran teased. "Repeating that might turn him _in_ to a demon."

"It's not my fault!" Alain snapped. "I didn't know he was there!"

Carver rolled his eyes at the pair of them and reached for the doorknob before hesitating. Some of the most traumatic moments of his life came from forgetting to knock, and while he didn't think the Exquisitor had his brothers'... _interests_ , he wasn't about to make that mistake with a spirit.

"Exquisitor?" he called out, rapping his knuckles on splintered wood. "We've come back."

"Garas!" A voice called out from inside. "Na'vir revas."

"Ma serannas!" Merrill called back, ducking under Carver's arm to open the door. "We've brought the First Enchanter, like we promised."

"The leader of mages?" Exquisitor took a moment to reply, as it switched languages. "I have so much to share. It has been so long." 

The spirit moved away from the strange metal contraption and began pulling books from one of the shelves behind the desk. The spheres and gems gleamed in the firelight as the device continued to count time.

"It's all right, Tim!" Merrill waved excitedly to the First Enchanter who remained in the hall, gazing into the room in awe. "It has books for you!"

Alain squeezed past Carver first and made his way toward the gleaming pillar, studying the gears. "Sorry about before," he offered lamely. "Is it fixed now? Does it work? I mean, whatever it's supposed to do..."

"It is... imperfect, still," the Exquisitor sighed, eyeing Alain as though it didn't trust the mage that close to its contraption. Which it probably didn't. Slowly, Alain backed away towards the centre of the room where he would have a harder time breaking anything. "But I have been looking forward to discussing my findings with the leader of the mages!"

Tim stepped into the room, adjusting his horns again when one bumped against the doorway. "Greetings. I am First Enchanter Tim." He paused, unsure whether to add that it was a pleasure to meet this Exquisitor or some other equally pointless pleasantry. He stared for a long moment at the device in the corner, the one Alain had just backed away from, but he couldn't divine its use.

"You have come at last!" Exquisitor smiled, eyes sparkling. "I have waited centuries!" It offered a book to Tim, and stepped toward the ancient seating on the other side of the room. "The mages would come and sit, and we would talk of the Fade. Different times, different mages, but then they all stopped. It is good you have come back."

Tim scratched his beard and took the book, taking a seat on a surprisingly well-preserved couch with only one arm. Strange Tevinter furniture, but at least it didn't seem to be enchanted to do anything interesting. "What are you working on?" he asked. "I'm afraid all the old Tevinter records were destroyed in the rebellion, what, eight hundred, nine hundred years ago?"

Exquisitor blinked, curious. "I know nothing of a rebellion. I know only that the mages stopped coming." It took a chair and spread a long roll of paper across the low table between them. "This is the planar alignment calculator." It pointed to the metal device. "It's still wrong, but it is less wrong. The Fade does not lend itself to mapping, but the mages insisted it could be so. They had mapped the moons and stars, so the Fade must just be a different path. But, the Fade moves more than the moons and stars, and parts of it are impermanent. There is no true map, but the places that are ... those that do not rise and fade away can be predicted. Can be, if not mapped, as one thinks of a map, aimed for, like firing an arrow. With more practise, you miss less badly and less often."

Tim's wary expression bloomed into something more curious. He leaned forward, the couch only creaking a little. "I did not think such a thing was possible." He couldn't quite make sense of the roll of paper in front of him, but he could tell it was meant to be a sort of map, if incomplete and occasionally contradictory, lines drawn and redrawn in varying configurations. Here and there were pockets of surety, however, and Tim wondered what they could mean.

Exquisitor nodded excitedly. "It is difficult work, a bit like writing in sand, but the old mages hoped to find patterns."

"So they could enter the Fade." Tim shook his head in amazement, wondering just how long this spirit had been here, how much he had seen. Or not seen, if he was stuck here all this time.

"They could already enter the Fade. This was so they could navigate its deepest realms." Exquisitor opened another book and paged through it, before tapping on a page. "They wanted to know if the Black City was truly the same distance from every point in the Fade, and if so, how that could be possible. Of course, explaining that it's possible because distance is a purely physical conceit..." It shrugged. "They wanted more than that."

"The Fade is a place of dreams," Merrill cut in, sliding into a seat beside Tim's and looking over the papers on the table. "Physical things like distance and shape only matter if you bring them with you, and even then, they only matter near you."

"Yes!" Exquisitor pointed at Merrill, with a wide grin. "So, it is more correct to say they wanted to find a way to impose their will on more of the Fade than they occupied at a time, which... doesn't work well at all. There are others who are already imposing their own rules, their own scales of distance. What they intended was most likely impossible, but the tools they wished to use to achieve it, I could ... approximate. I am certain that there are patterns in the greater realms. Those, at least, can be predicted with reasonable accuracy. Those places, these mages had no trouble going to, and the places beyond -- just beyond -- there was little difficulty. Only a few were lost. But, there are endless dreamscapes that shrink and expand at the visitor's expectation. How do you map a thing that is never the same as itself? Many were lost and almost lost, but I told them it was dangerous."

Tim looked a bit overwhelmed as he tried to wrap his head around this, but he nodded along, getting the gist. "Leave it to the magisters to want to try the impossible."

Carver shrugged, half listening to the conversation as he eyed the towers of books by Exquisitor's desk. "How can you tell if something is impossible without trying it first?

"Sounds like something an idiot would say right before getting killed," Keran replied, bumping shoulders with Carver.

Exquisitor ignored them, its attention still on Tim and Merrill and the paper spread between them. "I have learned much," it said, getting up to grab a few tomes before plopping them next to Tim on the couch. "And unlearned much. I would share all my findings with you, but I am reminded that your lives are short and there may not be enough time. Still, my research is yours to peruse."

"I look forward to it!" Tim smiled cautiously. "The books are in Tevene?"

Exquisitor nodded and pushed the large drawing closer to Tim. "That is what they expected. If you have any trouble, just ask. I've waited centuries to discuss this again." It paused. "I should have asked: can you read Tevene? Your companions do not speak it."

"Neither do I," Tim admitted, "but one doesn't get to be an enchanter without reading a bit of Tevene. I've read some ancient Tevinter treatises in my time." He patted the stack of books, gently. "So, you are still working on the same thing the magisters asked for, a thousand years ago. Do you enjoy it, still? Do you think you're doing something useful?"

"I enjoy knowing, learning, and teaching. The subject is secondary. I am called Exquisitor, because it is what I am. And my work always has a use -- whatever use my mages put it to. 'My'," it scoffed, suddenly. "As if they belong to me. Rather I belong to them. But, they are no more. So I belong to this place, and this place... belongs to you? So I have mages again, to use my work as it is fit to be used."

"Thank you," said Tim, lifting one of the ancient books, gentle with its fragile spine, and turned it open to a cramped, handwritten page. His Tevene was a bit rusty, but it wouldn't take too much to brush up. He knew enough to translate the creature's name, Exquisitor -- Researcher. Fitting, he supposed.

"Ah, thank me once you have read them," Exquisitor said, getting up again to grab a few more books to place before Tim. It adjusted its belt around its paunch before sitting back down. "It occurs to me that I should give you these, to start. It will put the others in context." It nodded to itself, either ignoring or not seeing the way Tim's eyes widened at the growing pile of books.

Alain choked back a laugh and nudged Carver. "Looks like you're going to have your hands full," he teased.

"You're the force mage. You carry it!" Carver huffed, folding his arms.

"That is certainly a lot of reading!" Tim exclaimed, examining the stack. "I'll bring them back to you, when I'm through. How does that sound? And then maybe you'll be able to explain all this and I'll actually understand it. But, if you ever want to work on something else, just let me know! I'm sure we have endless wonders still to explore."

In the back of Tim's mind, thoughts of that last deadly meeting in Val Royeaux bubbled to the surface. An immortal researcher would almost certainly be able to work out the details of what had been offered. All Tim wanted to know was whether it was true at all -- whether there was a cure. But, that would have to wait until Exquisitor had finished explaining the current project. It would be foolishness to discard a thousand years of research in the pursuit of something that could no doubt wait another year or two.

"As much as I appreciate knowing, I hope there's more to explore, even after so long. What a boring world it would be with nothing left to discover." Exquisitor paused. "But, you will come back?"

"Of course," Tim promised it. "We all still have much to learn."

Exquisitor beamed at that, and Tim politely made his escape before it could add more books to the pile.


	108. Chapter 108

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artemis begins pulling together a team to go to Gwaren, in the summer.

Artemis returned with a pitcher of beer from the bar. He found that business negotiations with Theron went better with a drink or two, and he panned it to keep it to a drink or two, since Natia sat to Theron's other side. Best to keep the negotiations to business, at least until later.

Artie took the seat next to his husband, who reached over to pour himself a drink. "So. Gwaren."

"Gwaren," Natia agreed, while Theron nodded. "Put together a team yet?"

"I was hoping you two might have some suggestions." Artemis drummed his fingers along the side of his tankard, waiting until the other three had poured drinks for themselves before reaching back for the pitcher.

"Maren wants to come along, and not because of any jokes Junar might've been making." Theron grinned and leaned out of the way, just in case. "She's talking about going into the forest to get us some halla, while we're there. Which, really, I have to agree with. It's a little difficult to pay the proper respect to Ghilan'nain, without any halla, and the gods are kind of integral to the decision to settle. We're not going anywhere, but we need halla to stay or to go."

"Right, but, she's not really building anything, is she?" Natia asked, pulling a roll of paper out of her jacket and slapping it down by the end so it unrolled across to Artemis. "I've got a list of builders. You probably remember most of those names from Sundermount, but a few of our first team don't want to leave Kirkwall, not that I blame them -- it's pretty nice here -- so the rest are people who can do the same work, but are willing to do it after getting on a boat."

Artemis skimmed over the list, nodding to himself at each name he recognised. "I trust your judgement, Natia. The builders we worked with were a decent sort, and we can't argue with the results."

Natia nodded, visibly pleased. "If you want this to go as smoothly as last time, though, we're going to need some mages to back us up." She kept her voice low. Even if mages here enjoyed more freedom than in recent memory, there was still some tension, some lingering prejudices. "You're impressive, but you have limits."

"Limits? Me?" Artemis drawled. He pictured himself accidentally flattening the ruins he was supposed to be restoring and had to agree with her. "I'd have to discuss that with the Knight-Commander, but luckily I know a guy."

"I hear a rumour you 'know a guy' like Andraste knew Maferath." Theron arched an eyebrow and grinned. "But, I've been on the right end of that knowing enough times not to say too much about it." He leaned out of the way again, but into Natia's reach, and she reached up and flicked the tip of his ear. "Ow! That is an extremely sensitive part of my body, and my wife will thank you not to do it too much damage."

"You forget, I've met your wife," Natia scoffed. "Speaking of your wife, is she coming with us?"

"She's not fond of Ferelden," he said, still rubbing the tip of his ear.

"I thought she was born in Denerim, but given the way I feel about Orzammar, maybe I shouldn't be surprised..."

"Yeah, like that, but with more revenge-killing her way through the guard and a noble house, on her way out of town." Theron chuckled at the memory. "I was there. Scenes like that belong in any good romance."

Fenris offered Artemis a sideways smile. "It does seem to be a theme, considering our wedding. The... revenge-killing, that is, not the knowing. Well. Maybe that too."

Natia's eyebrows arched. "Clearly I don't go to enough surfacer weddings."

"I suspect it's more a feature of Hawke weddings," Fenris drawled, "and that you have gone to enough."

Natia squinted, tilting her head. "I haven't gone to any, I don't think."

"I stand by my statement." A nudge from Artemis's elbow only made his smile widen.

"Revenge-killings or not, I'm sorry Kalli won't be joining us," Artie said. "Does she trust you not to get lost in the Fereldan wilderness without her?"

"No," Theron cheerfully answered. "Which is why she's glad Natia will be joining us."

Natia paused to swallow her beer. "Am I to keep you on a leash?"

Artemis levelled a glare at Theron's growing smirk, discouraging a lewd comment with a shake of his head.

"I'm sure there will be enough things to keep on leashes. Like the halla." Theron's smirk extended into a wide, smug smile.

Fenris cleared his throat and covered a smile.

"Speaking of halla and people who won't be building, I want to bring along a few more of your clan, if you can spare a few hunters," Natia said, still trying to figure out what Theron was so amused about.

"I'm sure we can. Things have settled down a bit, and we've got some good trade routes." Theron paused and blinked at Natia. "But, what do we need them for?"

"Food. We're walking back into the blighted lands, from what I can tell. I didn't keep up on the politics, but I've heard the south of Ferelden got hit pretty hard. There's not going to be a lot of food to spare down there, so we'd better count on getting our own." Natia shrugged and tapped on the letter that sat in the middle of the table. "The teyrn's promised us a full stipend including board, but I don't want us getting stuck as 'those foreigners who eat everything'. You saw what happened here in Kirkwall when the refugees started pouring in."

"I blame Anders for much of that," Artemis joked. "Ever seen a Grey Warden eat?"

"Not until your family started feeding him," Fenris reminded him. "But, I would not mind having hunters along. Always best to be cautious. We can trust you to come up with a few names, Theron?"

Theron nodded, humming into his beer, and Fenris spared a glance at Artemis to make sure he approved. This was his operation, after all, but his mage had no complaints.

"And..." Fenris cleared his throat, his knuckles brushing Artie's hand under the table. "We will need to let Mack know that we will not be visiting this summer." He almost regretted saying it as he watched the smile fade from Artemis's lips.

"...ah." Artie fiddled with the handle of his tankard, turning it parallel to the table's grain of wood. "Of course."

"So, this Antivan lover's getting serious for you two? Congratulations!" Theron grinned and reached over the table to pat Artemis on the shoulder. "Why don't you invite him to come down and distract you for a few days, once we really get things going? Give you something to think about other than the eighth of an inch to the left that one block is sitting."

Artemis felt his cheeks heat and determinedly didn't look in Fenris's direction. "I could ask him," he said, knowing full well that he couldn't. "But I don't think he's too fond of Ferelden. Something something everything is mud and wet dogs." He forced out a laugh, trying not to picture the hurt look on his brother's face.

"Ah, and that's why we're going to rebuild an elven city. You'll see the true glory of ancient Ferelden, right there, unmarred by dog drool." Theron grinned wider, one eyebrow arcing up suggestively. "And the true glory of some other elven delights, if I'm not mistaken."  


Natia pinched his ear again.


	109. Chapter 109

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anton and Cullen get shouty about politics, and then they get naked.

The glove hit the wall with a resounding smack, as Anton finished the sentence he'd started halfway up the stairs. "...and it's not that I mind the influx of elves, but I'd rather have them here because they want to be here, and not because they're fleeing extermination in Orlais, which has been doing exactly this for what, six hundred years, now? It's ridiculous!" The other glove tapped a bottle as it flew onto the dressing table, rapping the glass stopper against the mirror, there. "The blighted Chantry can never leave well enough alone, and look at what it's done to the very concept of being Orlesian!"

"You can't blame the Chantry, this time," Cullen sighed, closing and locking the door behind them. He slid his gauntlets onto the posts where they hung, when he got to came home, and started on the rest of his buckles. "It's the Empress and her cousin."

"I absolutely can blame the Chantry! It's the fault of the Chantry that the elves are even in a position where this could be considered an acceptable thing to do!" Anton shouted, struggling with his shirt.

"Yes, but the current Chantry is much too concerned with events outside Orlais. Namely the events here, in Kirkwall." Cullen set aside the first piece of metal and started on the next.

"Oh, how is that going? Any progress?" Anton asked from deep within a tangle of complicated, multi-coloured cloth.

"The Divine declines to launch an Exalted March, at this time, presumably because she's trying to protect the Grand Cathedral from Vanity and Presumption. You can't mount a decent defence without an army, and the last thing Val Royeaux needs is a civil war that kills the Divine. Only possibly accidentally. It's Orlais. You can't trust anyone." More metal clanked onto the edge of the bed.

"I thought that was Antiva." Anton's shirt thumped solidly against the top of the standing mirror in the corner, and he flexed, admiring his own reflection.

"Antiva's much the same sometimes, though I know a few Antivans who would take offence to that comparison." Metal hit the floor in heavy clanks, and Cullen at least had the presence of mind to throw most of his armour in the same direction. "And some Orlesians."

Anton scoffed, tugging impatiently at his own trousers. "Fuck Orlais just now," he grumbled, and while Cullen was inclined to agree, he hoped his husband didn't share those grumblings around the Council. The last thing they needed was to ruffle some noble feathers. "All of it. Or at least Celene."

A templar skirt landed on Anton's face, pulling him out of the angry rant Cullen had no doubt would continue. Cullen didn't quite hide a smirk when the viscount flailed, trying to free himself from the fabric.

"Usually the goal is to get clothing _off_ of me," Anton protested, his hair staticy and sticking up at weird angles when he finally accomplished freedom.

"I don't know, I like the look of you all tangled up." The last article of clothing on Cullen's body was his smalls, and he slid them off and tossed them at his husband, not quite able to keep from laughing as they caught on Anton's hair and hung into his face. "All right, those aren't big enough to work."

"Are you trying to tie me up?" Anton squinted across the bed at where his husband cut a bold silhouette before the moonlit window.

"Well, I'll need something to slow the notorious bandit of asses if I hope to catch him and deliver my sword." Cullen continued to laugh, looking down at Anton's legs as he rubbed the back of his neck. The legs were important. From across the bed, the legs would have to move first.

"Oh, really? Is that your bold plan, Commander?" Anton plucked the smalls from his face and spun them idly around his finger. And then he paused and looked at the cloth in his hand. "Did you get these from Fran's? These look like Fran's work."

Cullen's cheeks coloured at the appraising -- if delighted -- look on his husband's face. "Ah. Yes. She has started supplying the templars with their standard issue, uh, smalls."

"I'm not sure how 'standard issue' this is," Anton purred, feeling the soft fabric between his fingers. "Have you done any more shopping that I should know about?"

"Not unless you want to know about the vegetables I picked up earlier this week." Cullen came around the bed and took Anton by the hips, herding him back against the nearest wall.

"Oh? Pick up any turnips?" Anton's smile was wicked, somehow all the more alluring for the mess they had already made of his hair.

Cullen breathed a laugh against Anton's cheek. "No, I find my Fereldan parsnip perfectly satisfactory." He turned his head, thumbs stroking Anton's hipbones as he leaned in for a kiss... only to end up with a mouth full of smalls, the warm skin under his palms slipping away.

"Bringing Orlais into the bedroom, after you worked so hard to get it out?" Anton clapped a hand to his chest. "Oh, the horrors!"

Cullen spit out his smalls, wincing at the taste of a day's sweat. "Orlais? Where do you get Orlais out of a Fereldan parsnip?"

"Oh, that was... you didn't come with us on that holiday, did you?" Anton stepped closer, again, spinning his husband to face him and sliding his thigh between Cullen's legs.

"The one with the flaming magister?" Cullen asked, fingers sinking into the eternally kneadable flesh of Anton's ass.

"No, the one with the wyverns, in that Orlesian's summerhouse in the mountains. We nearly had a man killed for calling us parsnips. Well, after he attacked us after our hunt, in the hope of claiming our wyvern for his own. Terrible business. I fell in a ditch."

How Anton could make a sulk look so appealing Cullen would never be sure. He'd seen plenty of sulking Fereldans over the years, but none of them had this effect on him. "A ditch? You?" He tried to sound at least a bit scandalised before he pulled Anton closer and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "How utterly dastardly."

"I survived," Anton sniffed. "I am a man of many assets. And that asset that you are currently admiring broke my fall."

"The Ass-Bandit's ass? Travesty!"

Anton chuckled into the next kiss, turning his head just enough to turn it into a proper one. Cullen was merely grateful not to get up with a mouth full of underwear again. Anton, he found, tasted much better.

Cullen tugged him closer, skin to skin, until they were a tangle of limbs, held up only by the wall at Cullen's back. "There is a bed, you know," Cullen reminded Anton between kisses. Anton hummed, his lips leaving Cullen's to trace the shape of his jaw. "A rather comfortable one, in fact. It would be a crime to neglect it."

"Indeed," Anton purred, "but did we not establish that I am already a criminal?"

Cullen breathed a laugh as Anton dipped his tongue into the hollow of his throat. "The notorious Ass-Bandit, Neglecter of Beds? How terribly wicked of you."

"Ah, but I am even more wicked than that," Anton purred, fingers teasing Cullen's sides. "I am a misuser of walls, as well. And an enthusiastic appreciator of fine swords."

"Have you seen many fine swords, then?" Cullen gasped and rose up on his toes as Anton raised his knee.

"I am a connoisseur of fine swords; I have a wide range of comparison." Anton nipped under Cullen's chin. "Shall I inspect yours and see how it measures up?"

"I'm not sure my sword would withstand such a thorough inspection," Cullen breathed, glancing down the narrow gap between their chests to where Anton's thigh pressed against him.

"Oh, I have seen swords falter, but yours strikes me as being strong and well-made. Surely it wouldn't fall to pieces at a touch. If it did, what sort of sword would it be?"

"It depends on the touch," Cullen gasped when a hand reached down between them to wrap around his 'sword'. "But I see you know how to handle a weapon."

"You have a sturdy blade, Ser Cullen," Anton murmured against Cullen's collarbone, and Cullen could feel those lips turning up in a smile. Anton swirled his thumb and felt his husband shiver, his grin curling higher. "I imagine it has vanquished many foes." Now, if he moved his hand just so...

"None so dangerous or skilled as you, villain." And there it was, the hitch in Cullen's voice Anton had been after. "But I have a few tricks of my own." With one arm around Anton's hips and the other in his hair, Cullen shifted his footing and their weight, spinning them until it was Anton pinned to the wall.

"Oh, such daring, Commander!" Anton tipped his head back and licked his lips, his hand still gently teasing his husband's sword. "That might win you something, one day!"

"One day? And here I thought it might be today," Cullen murmured, eyeing the cabinet that stood between him and throwing Anton onto the bed. With a muttered curse, he buried his face against Anton's neck, nibbling quite distractingly.

"You wish to win me, do you, Ser Cullen?" Anton chuckled and nudged his leg between Cullen's again, setting his foot behind Cullen's heel.

"Since the day I met you," Cullen breathed against his husband's ear, with surprising sincerity.

Anton was more than a little surprised, and Cullen took advantage of the moment to spin the long way around, still holding onto Anton and using the foot Anton had meant to trip him with to sweep the man off his feet. As Cullen came to face the bed, he let the momentum carry Anton onto it, and then pounced before Anton had landed.

"Do you yield, Ass-Bandit?" Cullen asked, eyes narrowed in a challenge.

"Yield? Never." Anton wiped the surprise off his face, impressed and more than a little... _appreciative_ of Cullen's quick thinking. "Not until you put that sword to use!" He hooked a leg over Cullen's hip, pulling his husband closer.

"Ah, and I see you've brought your own sword to bear," Cullen rejoined, unable to keep a smile from his lips or his voice. He took hold of Anton's wrists and pinned them to the bed, regretting, for a moment, the loss of those clever fingers, before he kissed a line down Anton's throat, down his chest, revelling in each shivering exhale.

"You didn't think I would come unarmed, would you?" Anton squirmed under Cullen's lips and tongue, pretending, for the moment, that his wrists were actually pinned.

"Never," Cullen assured him, running out of arm just before he reached the sword in question with his tongue. He smiled up along the length of his husband's body and delivered a few more teasing licks. "Oh, my. Whatever is a man to do?"

"Surrender," Anton declared, pulling his legs up until he could wrap them around Cullen, and then rolling sharply to the side, which left his sword jabbing just underneath Cullen's chin.

It also left Cullen in an incredibly awkward position, with his ass just at the edge of the bed. "Move up," he grunted, arms still stretched over his head, where he'd let go of Anton's wrists in surprise. "I'm going to fall."

"Mm, that sounds like surrender to me," Anton purred, scooting up just enough for Cullen to shuffle higher up the bed.

Cullen grabbed hold of the sheets to anchor himself. "Never, knave! Bring your sword to bear!" Cullen finished this brazen statement with a lick up Anton's knob. The angle was not gentle on his neck, but the hitch in Anton's chuckle was worth it.

"It is rare that I face such a worthy opponent." Anton arched his hips to give Cullen a better angle, and Cullen obliged by wrapping his lips around the tip of his husband's sword. "Such skill, Commander!"

Cullen hummed in answer, wriggling just a bit lower to ease his neck. He felt the sheets start to slide but focused on wringing more shivers and appreciative sounds from his husband.

Never too deep, with Cullen, Anton knew. They'd made that mistake and suffered for it, and he focused on the sight of those tattered lips wrapped around him and how much of his flesh had passed them. The blanket shifted behind him, but he assumed it was just Cullen's leg moving. No cause for concern, especially when he had that warm tongue pressed against him. Cullen wasn't exceptionally good at swallowing knobs, but as far as Anton was concerned, he more than made up for it in enthusiasm and those little sounds he made in the back of his throat.

"Do you like the weight of my sword in your--" The sentence ended in a surprised squeal as the blankets slid over the edge of the bed, dumping Cullen unceremoniously on the floor and leaving Anton curled up around his damp, tooth-scraped knob.

"Ow," Cullen complained from the floor, head resting against the edge of the bedframe.

Anton grunted in agreement, still trying to find the part of his brain that would make words come out of his mouth. It was a good thing they mostly had the house to themselves, these days, because this was exactly the sort of thing his siblings would never let him live down.

Cullen twisted to get a good look at his husband, who was curled up in a fetal ball, lip between his teeth. He pushed himself up, ignoring his bruised posterior. His hands hovered over his husband, unsure if he would get kicked for the effort.

"...should we call this one a draw, Ass-Bandit?"

Anton let out a pained laugh and slowly uncurled. "Shut up and kiss it better."

"Maybe more squarely on the bed, this time?" Cullen suggested, climbing up onto the bed and tugging at his husband's hip. "Or is this part of your misuse of beds?"

"Should have stayed with the wall," Anton huffed as he rolled onto his back.

Taking Anton's hips in his hands, Cullen dragged his husband toward the centre of the bed, then settled across his legs. "Mmm, perhaps we'll make better use of the wall next time. Or that mirror you so enjoy." He paused, mid-motion, as he brought his face down to deliver the kisses Anton demanded. "That looks swollen in the wrong ways. Do you need a potion for that? I'm so sorry. I just wasn't expecting ... we've done this so many times... it never -- I never--"

"It's not broken." Anton laughed weakly. "Just a little bent and scraped. I'm sure it just needs a few kisses."

Cullen looked doubtful, but carefully kissed his way down the length of Anton's knob and then back up. His eyes held Anton's as he took just the tip between his lips and teased it with his tongue, feeling the difference in heat against his lip from the faint swelling where one of his teeth had caught.

Anton covered his eyes and tipped his head back. "Oh, Maker, I suddenly understand things I never wanted to know about my brother. You're right; pass me a potion, and maybe I'll forget all of this in another moment."

Cullen pressed an apologetic kiss to Anton's hip before pushing himself up again. "I don't want to know which brother." He was grateful, for a moment, that he always kept a healing potion on his belt. And then he was less grateful when he wasn't sure where it ended up.

"I'll give you three guesses," Anton groaned. With his eyes still covered, he pointed in the direction of Cullen's wayward belt.

"Ah! Thank you." Cullen unhooked the potion bottle from his belt and brought it to his ailing husband. "And I think I already know more about your brothers than I ever needed to."

Anton drained the potion and let the vial bounce on the sheets. "You don't know the half of it, Commander."

"I know that it is the Maker's own grace that Carver can even sit in a room with me."

"Ah, but that's his knowing, not your own. At least he kept it out of the house!" Anton laughed, one hand gently caressing his knob, as the potion started to work.

"Then you have only one brother who seems notable, here. The other always seemed much too quiet to be disruptive." And here he was thinking about it, but he couldn't help it.

"The other brother is even more disruptive, if only to the dishes and the chandeliers." Anton rolled his eyes. "Enough about my brothers. Weren't you going to give me kisses?"

"Yes, but you interrupted me to talk about your brothers," Cullen retorted.

"Lies!" Anton cried, bringing a pillow down suddenly on the back of Cullen's head. "Such talk, you scoundrel!"

"Aha! A hidden weapon! I should have suspected!" Cullen grabbed the pillow as Anton wound up for a second hit, wrestling it out of his hands and tossing it to the corner where his armour had ended up. "But I see you are not yet disarmed..."

As he knelt on the bed over his husband, Cullen wondered if Anton would ever tire of the sword jokes.

"Think you are up to the task, Ser Cullen?"

Not anytime soon, Cullen suspected as he pressed a grin to Anton's belly and kissed his way down to a sword that was now swollen in all the right ways. "I am always up to a challenge, knave!"


	110. Chapter 110

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samson's heard a rumour, and goes to Tim for confirmation. With his condition not improving, he decides it's time to do something drastic, before he runs out of time.

Samson tried to be calm. It was probably just a rumour. He'd heard all kinds of weird shit out on the road, and most of it wasn't true, so just because someone was whispering about dispatches that had come in while he was gone didn't mean those dispatches were real. Didn't mean anything at all. But, he had to know. So, he did his best to refrain from kicking in the First Enchanter's door and going in shouting.

It only half worked.

He knocked on the door, but once he was invited in, he paused and then slammed it behind him -- if he was wrong, if it wasn't true, he didn't need to give the recruits another reason to doubt his sanity. "I'm hearing some shit -- things... ser..." He took another breath, and this time there was no holding back the flood. "If there's a cure for Tranquillity, why are people like Maddox still suffering? Why wouldn't you tell us? It's a bunch of bullshit, right?"

"Maddox isn't suffering, thank the Maker," Tim corrected, a sadness in his eyes, as he tried to get his thoughts together. "That is the nature of Tranquility. He cannot suffer. And we do our best to ensure that if he could, there would be no reason for it."

Samson clenched his hand into a fist to keep from slamming it on Tim's desk. He wasn't dealing with Meredith. Losing his temper would not help. "That's not an answer, and you know it."

"It's part of an answer," Tim amended, gathering up the papers he had been perusing and setting them aside in a neat pile. "Where have you heard this?"

"I told you. I've been hearing things. Rumours. Don't believe half of it. Don't believe half of _this_. But... Maddox... I had to know."

Tim nodded, shoulders sagging, and he suddenly looked ten years older. "I wish I had a firm answer for you," he said. "I can tell you that they may be more than rumours. Beyond that... well, anyone who knew for certain is now dead, as far as I know."

"Knew for certain?" Samson could almost feel his back creak in protest as he leaned forward and gripped the edge of Tim's desk. His eyes gleamed with sudden inspiration. "Then someone did know. Someone tried it. If we try it again, then we'll know."

"I wish!" Tim shook his head and leaned across the desk to pat Samson's arm. "The invitation to the last meeting of the Enchanters, before the College was disbanded, said only that a man -- a mage -- claimed to have found a cure, and that the purpose of the meeting was to determine if it was true. As you know, I didn't go, because we had so much to do, here, so much to repair in Meredith's wake. I never expected the meeting would turn violent. I thought when it was over I could send for a copy of the notes, and we'd know."

"The White Spire," Samson breathed, dizzy as he finally put the pieces together in his mind. He noticed a chair at the corner of Tim's desk and pulled it closer, so he could sink slowly into it, like the old man he figured he was becoming. "We were just coming into Orlais and phylacteries just started not glowing any more. They'd all been pointing the way of Val Royeaux, and we -- me and Alain -- we thought they'd been caught and fought until we heard. We weren't really wrong, just the reason. You telling me that's what started that?"

"I don't know," Tim admitted, "but I do know, and I mean no slight to the good men and women who serve here, that the templars would have an excellent reason to suppress that method, if it were real. Perhaps even to suppress any rumour of the method, if it isn't. People who have hope fight harder."

"Like you said, that's not something the Tranquil can have."

"I wasn't talking about him. I was talking about you, and every other friend of someone branded."

The muscles in Samson's jaw tightened, so did the muscles in his neck and shoulders, so did his fists. His fraying body still knew how to wind itself up for a fight, but there was no one to fight here. There was just Tim and his tired eyes and that ridiculous horned hat. 

"Those bastards," Samson said to the floor. "They have something -- they _could have_ something, and they're trying to cover it up instead of using it. Is this what it means to be a templar?" His lip curled, but it wasn't a smile. His throat felt as tight as his fists. "I'm through."

Tim blinked at him, looked him over. "Through?"

"Through with all this bullshit." Samson pushed himself back to his feet, wondering the next moment if that had been a bad idea, but he needed out.

* * *

* * *

Gilroy sat in the atrium, eating cake with Sheena and Murray. The glass above had finally been cleaned, some of it replaced, and beneath the trees was one of the warmest places in the Gallows. He could've gone outside -- any of them could, now -- but he wanted to appreciate the changes of the last couple of years. It was the little things that really made a difference, and if they were going to go to Ferelden, soon, he wanted good memories to share, when people asked him what it was like living in Kirkwall.

"I'm definitely going along," Sheena assured Murray. "How could we not? It's a great project -- like Sundermount, but a puzzle!"

"Being stuck in your room for ten years made you obsessed," Gilroy mumbled around a mouthful of cake. "Puzzles! Always puzzles!"

"But, it is!" Sheena insisted, jabbing her fork at Gilroy. "We're going to uncover and reconstruct ruins. That means there's pieces that need to be put back together. It's a big stone puzzle. It'll be great!"

"You sure know how to make a grand travelling adventure sound dull, Sheena," Gilroy replied, rolling his eyes. "'Giant stone puzzle!' That's how Gwaren should advertise."

"Well, I'm going, too," Murray cut in, ignoring Gilroy's words but sneaking a bite of his cake. "Can't say we've had much of a chance to see the world, and I'd like to."

Gilroy moved his plate out of reach of Murray's fork, cutting him a glare. "And you're not at all worried about how the Fereldans will react to us? How they're gonna treat us mages outside of Kirkwall?"

"Can't be worse than Meredith." Sheena shrugged, stealing a bite from Gilroy's plate that he had so conveniently moved within her reach. He threw her a betrayed look, and she smiled. "Mm, tastes better from your plate!"

"Why would I be worried?" Murray asked. "Their tower fell down, didn't it? It's not like they can lock us up. Besides, we have permission from Commander Cullen and from the Teyrn of Gwaren and from the _Queen of Ferelden_. I can't really imagine anyone starting a fight the queen's going to finish. She's really something, I've heard. Killed giants, when she was a kid."

"I'm not worried about the templars, you dolt," Gilroy drawled. "It's the townspeople. You remember what it was like, here, the first year." He sighed and shook his head, just in time to see Alain come in from the far door. "Alain! You've been to Ferelden! What are the people like? Did any of them give you a rough time about being a mage?"

Alain reached out and plucked a candied strawberry off Murray's cake, tossing it into his mouth. "We didn't tell them I was one. Why?"

Murray force shoved Alain, while he was still chewing. "Get your own cake!"

"Gilroy's worried about us going south, in the summer. We're supposed to go with Lord Hawke, to restore some elven ruins for the Teyrn of Gwaren. He thinks we'll get trouble from the locals." Sheena shrugged and Murray grabbed the cherry from her cake as it rose up into reach.

"I don't know," Alain admitted. "They're definitely cautious about magic, but I don't think I met a lot of people who would actually attack a mage. As long as you don't trash any taverns or anything, you'll probably be fine after a few weeks. People calm down pretty quickly. They have other things to worry about, like the Blight."

"Ha, right," Gilroy huffed, pleased to see pieces of everyone else's cake getting pilfered. "That... shouldn't be an issue now, though? The Blight?"

"No," Alain answered, "but the people down south? They remember it. Something like that tends to put priorities in perspective. As long as you don't act or smell like a darkspawn, I wouldn't be worried. Not too worried, anyhow."

"Smell like a darkspawn?" Sheena clicked her tongue. "Shit. Murray's out."

"Do you _want_ me to force shove cake into your face?"

"Only if it's Gilroy's!"

Alain shook his head indulgently. "But if you're really worried, I'd ask Samson for advice. He was really good at chatting up the locals, seemed to know what they wanted to hear."

"Samson's been weird, the last few days," Gilroy said, shaking his head. "Like, weirder. He's always weird."

Sheena nodded in agreement. "He's usually friendly. Well, sort of. He's usually cranky, but it's just because he's sick. Lately, he's been... crankier, but quieter. There's no jokes any more. No, 'Oh, no, you and your force magic stay away from my old knees! I'll smite you right here, young missy!' like he used to do."

"He's not getting better. I mean, he's not getting any worse, but he's not getting better," Alain told them, with a sigh. "He's really worried about what that's going to mean. I mean, it's not exactly like any of us were bright and cheerful when we weren't sure who was going to be alive, tomorrow. I'm sure he'll shake it, eventually. At least a little."

"It's not like spending all that time with Maddox is going to help," Murray managed around a bite of cake. "Tranquil aren't exactly the most cheery people to be around. Not really the most reassuring company."

Alain finally slipped into a chair, deciding he was more than a passer-by in this conversation. "I hadn't thought about it, but he has been spending more time around Maddox, hasn't he?" And Alain wasn't sure where the surge of guilt came from. He and Samson had gotten close or at least comfortable with each other over their travels, but Alain had seen little of him since they'd come back.

"I think he still feels responsible," Sheena said with a mouthful of cake. She scraped up the last few crumbs, the last few swipes of frosting with her fork. "Being sick means too much time sitting around wallowing, I guess--"

Murray cut her off with a shush, the obvious glance over her shoulder telling her that the subject of their conversation had entered the atrium. She kept her attention on the essence of cake still left on her plate.

"Samson!" Alain called out. "Just the man I was looking for! Come have a bite of cake with us!"

Samson paused, almost to the other door, the tail of his heavy cloak fluttering behind him. He looked torn. "Can't stop to talk, now. I've got to see a man about a cure. Could be the last chance we get." He offered a sad smile. "You take good care of yourself, Alain. You're a good man and a good mage. And keep that girl out of the clinics, with her shoving and bench-floating! I don't care if it's magic! It's still unnatural!" He pointed at Sheena and winked.

"It's perfectly natural!" Sheena argued. "But, go! You don't want to miss out if it works! I hope it does. I hope you're better soon."

"Someone will be. Don't you worry about me." Samson turned and headed out the door, toward the front of the Gallows.

* * *

By now, Thrask had seen Cassandra around enough that their conversations had gone from stiffly polite to simply polite. She seemed a decent sort, if occasionally severe and full of prying questions. It was her job, after all, to ask questions, to look deeper, and if nothing else, Thrask could admire someone who was good at their job.

It was a pleasant enough day in the Gallows courtyard, a light breeze carrying the smell of the sea, and Thrask was doing what he could to tell Cassandra about the new chantry in between questions about what was happening in Orlais. And then a storm cloud rolled towards them in the form of Ser Samson, and their conversation dried up.

Samson marched right up to Cassandra, his face pale and sweat-shining with the combination of sickness and exertion. "You're not here just because Kirkwall's Kirkwall," he hissed between clenched teeth. "You're here because there's a cure, and you can't let dangerous mage-lovers like us find out about it."

"Are you sure you should be outside, Ser Samson?" Cassandra asked, with a quick glance at Thrask. "You are not looking very well. What have the healers said?"

"You do look a bit shit, Samson," Thrask agreed, looking genuinely concerned.

"Don't you worry about me, Captain. I'm going to go find the cure, and then everything's going to change." Samson smiled unpleasantly, yellowed teeth against his blood-red gums making him look even more ill than he had.

"You... know where there's a cure?" Thrask asked, trying to keep his tone light but his wide eyes making it difficult to pull off. "That's excellent news."

"Yeah," Samson said brittly with a smile to match. "It's great news. Or at least it should be. Isn't that right, Seeker?"

"...yes?" The way he glared at her, his wording, told Cassandra that he was hinting at something only she and he would know. Only, she couldn't for the life of her figure out what that was, which left him having a conversation with himself.

"Unbelievable," Samson scoffed, wiping the sweat from his face. "You're just going to keep acting like you don't know, aren't you? Coward."

"Yes, I am," Cassandra said, expression tightening, "because I _don't_ know what you're talking about."

Samson grunted as if he'd expected that answer. "You keep an eye on her," he said to Thrask. "Don't forget who she works for, and that she doesn't really have the best interests of the Gallows at heart -- if she's got a heart at all. Should hear the things she said about Maddox. But, no more." He turned to walk away. "No more!"

"Do you have any idea what he's talking about? Should we send someone after him? A healer, maybe?" Cassandra watched Samson head toward the dock, confusion splashed across her face.

"Not the least. But, if he's talking about a cure, he's probably headed for one of the clinics on the mainland, or maybe Lady Merrill's. She'll know what to do with him." Thrask shook his head, sadly. "The sickness is really getting to the poor man, and the half-rations of lyrium aren't helping his disposition. The healers say he'll settle out in a few months, but that depends on him having a few months." He held out an arm to Cassandra. "Come in with me, and we'll send a runner to Lady Merrill. I'm sure she'll let us know what's happening."

* * *

Samson's face was less stormy but no less grim when he came to the docks. Maddox was waiting for him.

"Do you have everything?" Samson asked, not looking around, not letting himself be drawn back into memories of other boats and mages, smuggled out to what he could only hope was safety.

"Yes," Maddox said in a monotone that still made Samson cringe. "Everything is on the ship, and we are ready."

"Good." Samson wiped away more sweat, his skin cold and clammy under his fingers.

"Are you well?" The question sounded odd, unfeeling in Maddox's flat voice, with his flat eyes, but Samson knew that somewhere, under there, was his friend.

Samson rolled his shoulders. "I'm not dead."

"That is true," Maddox agreed, eyes still without light.

"Come on," Samson encouraged, gesturing toward the waiting ship. "We've got a long trip, and if I'm going to stay not dead, we should get going."

Maddox followed without a word, until they'd settled into a tiny cabin Samson had paid for to keep the brand away from the other passengers. "The rumours may be false," he said, finally.

"Then we'll find out, together." Samson dug through a trunk and pulled out a servant's outfit, tossing it to Maddox. "Put that on. Those robes are going to have people all over us otherwise. I'll tell people you're my man, and nobody will ask, because I'm old and sick. You put on a hat and nobody will ever know. But, listen to me, Maddox. Where we're going, people are dangerous. I know you do as you're told, but I need you not to take orders from anyone but me, unless it's to move out of someone's way."

Maddox nodded as he began to change his clothes, stripping off the Tranquil robes for what might be the last time. But, there was no hope, no regret. This was just the next stage, and he would help Samson pursue a cure he couldn't be sure he wanted to accept. But, he would, because it was what Samson wanted for him. He knew how upset he would be at the things he'd done and seen -- he could remember what it meant to be upset, but ... it just wasn't available any more. Hadn't been for a long time. But, Samson was surely right. Samson was always right.


	111. Chapter 111

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hahren Paivel tells a story of the Dread Wolf. Feynriel talks about demons.

Feynriel had promised himself that he would spend the morning studying, but his attention kept wandering. He was restless, his focus drifting to stare out the window or to listen to the voices outside, and before he knew it, a half hour had passed and he was still stuck on the same page.

It wasn't that the subject matter was uninteresting. In fact, Feynriel found magical theory fascinating, but just outside he could hear children and Paivel gearing up to tell a story. It made him ache, made him think of a childhood he could have had here, as part of a clan, and finally he set aside his studies for the day. Taking in Dalish stories was a different kind of studying, after all, and his mother always told him that fresh air was good for him.

"Children," Paivel said as Feynriel watched and listened from the doorway, "today you hear a tale of Fen'Harel, the Dread Wolf."

Children of varying sizes and ages sat in a semi-circle around Paivel, and at the mention of Fen'Harel, a few of the smaller children growled and snapped their teeth at each other, pretending to be wolves. It was the calmest Feynriel had seen the lot since he'd come here.

"Long before the Dales, long before Tevinter, there was once a village of elves, much like this one," Paivel began, gesturing to the buildings around them. "And that village had trouble with a terrible beast, so the hahrens drew together and prayed to Fen'Harel. 'Oh, Dread Wolf,' they prayed, 'come and slay this beast, so it troubles us no more!'"

Feynriel studied Paivel, waiting for the punchline. It was a story of the Dread Wolf -- who wasn't the sort of god one usually prayed to. He wondered where this would go wrong.

"And just as they hoped, Fen'Harel arrived with the sun, the very next morning. But, the Dread Wolf took one look at the beast and knew he could not defeat it in single combat, for it was truly a great and threatening monster. So, he shot a single arrow into the sky and turned to leave." Paivel pantomimed the shooting of the arrow. "And the elders of the village tried to stop him, saying, 'Did you not come to save us? You must save us!' But, Fen'Harel replied, 'When did I ever say I would save you?' And the villagers became angry, but the Dread Wolf left them."

Some of the smaller children gasped. Feynriel just looked puzzled. This was too simple. What was the arrow for?

"That night, the beast came into the village, and it ate up all the men. Then it ate up all the women." Paivel gestured with his arms like a great beast's gnashing jaws. "But, before it could eat up all the children, Fen'Harel's arrow fell from the sky, into its mouth, and killed the beast where it stood -- just as the god had been asked to do. And the children of that village were very sad to have lost their elders, but they made an offering to Fen'Harel, that very night, for he had done just as he was asked, no more and no less. Though he did not save the village elders, he slew the beast in the only way he could -- with a slow arrow it never saw coming."

The children's faces scrunched up, their little ears twitching, and they turned to each other, protesting. Their voices cut over one another until Paivel motioned for them to settle down. 

"That's stupid!" one boy exclaimed, ears flattening when Paivel sent him a stern look. "The Dread Wolf knew what they were asking!"

"Ah, but he did exactly what they asked for, not what they thought they were asking for," Paivel insisted. "There is a power in words, don't forget, and you should be careful of yours. Calling Fen'Harel stupid is not the wisest choice."

The boy gasped and promptly shut his mouth, the twinkle in Paivel's eye the only thing that said he was teasing.

"But it's their fault for wording it wrong," a smaller girl next to him said. "That's all they had to do, right? No one here would have messed that up!"

The other children chattered again, some in agreement, some pointing at another child who would have certainly 'messed it up'. Feynriel wondered if he had ever been that sure of himself.

"It's not that simple," he said, and the chattering stopped. He paused, suddenly self-conscious with so many eyes on him.

Paivel's eyes lit on Feynriel, first in reproach, and then in curiosity, as he recognised the darkness that hung in the corner of the boy's eyes. "You have some knowledge of the Dread Wolf?"

"Not the Dread Wolf, but other tricksters. Demons. They're too young to remember me--" Feynriel tipped his chin toward the children. "But, you remember, don't you?"

Paivel shrugged. "You were human. The Keeper returned and said you were leaving for Tevinter. She would speak no more of it."

The children watched Feynriel walk toward them, edging out of the way as Paivel waved him to the front of the group.

"Tell them," Paivel instructed, stepping aside and leaving Feynriel standing alone before far too many eyes.

"When I was young, as you are young, I had a strange magic that no one had ever seen. I still have it, now, but now I know how to use it, which is very different from what happened, then." Feynriel closed his eyes, to avoid the interested gazes. He was a stranger, still, in his mother's clan. That was what the demons had seen, then. "My power is to walk around in dreams, as if I were awake. I can even visit other people who are asleep. And one day, I went to bed and I didn't wake up, and Keeper Marethari had to send some very brave people into my dream to wake me up. But, there were demons keeping me. Demons who knew the things I wanted most in all the world, and they were pretending those things were real, showing them to me. And when I was dreaming, I had no reason to believe there were demons! It was just a dream. A really nice dream. And in the dream, all I had to do was say what I wanted, and they'd give it to me -- but if I did, I'd never wake up again."

"But, how did you know they were demons?" the small girl from earlier asked.

"I didn't," Feynriel admitted. "But, do you all know about Lord Hawke? Lord Hawke and his brother came to save me, and they brought their friends. And they showed me what was real, so I could go home again. They fought the demons for me, so I could wake up. So, it's not so very simple as saying the right thing. Sometimes it's even knowing there's a right thing to say. Sometimes it's knowing that what's happening isn't real. But, you can't go around distrusting yourself all the time and expecting demons around every corner. So, you have to make a compromise. You have to figure out what you're willing to believe -- and to know who doesn't sound like themselves."

The eyes fixed on him were wide, some worried, and part of Feynriel wondered if maybe they were too young for this talk. But the other part of Feynriel reminded him that it was the sort of talk he wished he had had at their age.

One girl tugged at Paivel's sleeve. "Hahren? Will that happen to us?"

Paivel tweaked her ear and pet her hair. "Not if you listen to the stories I tell you and to what you just heard. We are here to make sure that doesn't happen. Feynriel here is a Dreamer, and it is unlikely any of you are. Demons may tempt you, but they cannot trap you in your dreams in that way."

The girl looked less concerned, and she nodded, sitting back down. Was she a mage? Feynriel looked around the cluster of children and had to wonder how many of them would turn out to be mages. At least they would be looked after in ways he hadn't been.

"But, what if it does?" a boy asked, turning his wary eyes back to Paivel. "There's no Keeper, here. Who's going to send help?"

"I will," Feynriel promised. "If it happens to any of you, I'll come to save you, myself. And then you will know them if they come for you again. After the first time, it gets easier. After the first time, I could do it myself." He thought of the stories he'd heard in Tevinter, of towers in the south where mages were intentionally thrown to demons, just to see if they'd make it back alive. It seemed sadistic and unlikely, but perhaps it was true that they were sent to meet demons in dreams. As long as they went in with guards to help them, it would be an enlightening experience, and far less dangerous than what he'd been through.

"There's only one of you," the boy retorted, doubtfully.

"But, I'm very skilled in what I do. If it makes you feel better, I'll call Lord Hawke, if I have to come rescue you from demons. We'll see if I can bring him along, again. He was quite a hero for me." Though, maybe not his husband, this time. Not after what happened before.

That seemed to settle them down, somewhat, except for a few of the older kids who threw each other dubious looks. Paivel's smile warmed something in Feynriel's chest, and he stood taller.

Then one of the children piped up, "Can you tell us more about the demons?" The others agreed in chorus.

"Yes! Tell us the story!"

"Uh." Feynriel exchanged a helpless look with Paivel, who shrugged, trying not to laugh. He wasn't sure how much more of that story he was willing to tell, but their eager faces were hard to refuse. "I'm not exactly the best storyteller..." But Paivel motioned him over to stand in front of the kids, and Feynriel, haltingly, began to tell them.


	112. Chapter 112

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bethany has needs Sebastian isn't meeting. She goes to Nathaniel for advice.

Nathaniel was up to his neck in information that had to be sorted, documented, and passed on to the correct advisors. Somehow, he'd become Starkhaven's spymaster, while he wasn't looking, though he strongly suspected that was Elissa's fault. Ansburg, fairly likely. He knew Thalia. Kirkwall... that seemed ridiculous. He couldn't imagine that many elves had come from Orlais, fleeing the war. The door whipped open and he swore as the breeze from the hall blew a droplet of ink into the middle of the document. As he blotted at it, the princess-consort swept in, closing and locking the door behind her.

"Nathaniel, I need your help," she whispered loudly, as she crossed the room.

"Do you?" Nathaniel looked up wryly from the piles of paper on his desk. "What's he done, this time?"

"Nothing! That's exactly my problem. I just can't seem to get through to him, and Isabela -- no one knows where she's gotten to, this time, but there's reports of strange storms sinking known pirates, in the Waking Sea." Bethany came around the side of the desk, not to lean over the papers. "I'm going to go mad. Help me find someone who can be trusted. Someone who's interested and won't go blathering all across Thedas."

"Me," he replied with a sigh.

"I'm not asking you, Nathaniel; you're almost as uptight as Sebastian is. One of my terms was 'interested', which I don't think you are." Bethany smiled at him, a bit sadly. "Though, Elissa's right. You are very handsome, in a Fereldan way."

It took Nathaniel a moment to decide which part of that he wanted to pick apart. Calling him 'uptight' or... "I was never uninterested in you," he said, still fiddling with the documents when they didn't need it. "I was more uninterested in getting involved with any political implications or with Sebastian's sad excuse for a personal life." He finally looked at her, eyes moving slowly up to her face. "But, you have always been... compelling."

Nathaniel could picture the pleased look on Elissa's face, knew she would ask for all the details, knew that he would tell her, too, because he could deny her nothing.

Bethany tilted her head, her smile turning more intrigued than sad. "And yet you say it with such reluctance. I find myself unconvinced."

"I am not certain this is the place for a convincing demonstration," Nathaniel demurred, glancing around his office.

"I am not certain there is a better place for a demonstration. I am in your office. Who would dare speak of it? The arrangement is not worth comment, where your suite would be," Bethany argued, resting her hip against the edge of the desk.

She had a point, and Nathaniel would give her that. Besides, it would hardly be the first time his door had been locked, whether for his own sanity or because Jenet and Charade were crinkling his papers again. Still... if anyone got the faintest breath of impropriety off their meeting, the legitimacy of the Prince of Starkhaven would be in question, as would any heirs he might, in the future, claim. And, somehow, that was the best reason for him to do this -- to do it _himself_ , knowing that he would not make an easy mess of it. "Are you certain you would not prefer a woman?" he asked, at last. "The scandal would be substantially less, in the event of... any mishap."

"And you? Do you expect to make a botch of this? Is that what troubles you?" Bethany chuckled quietly.

"If she, whoever she may be, makes a botch of it, the worst scandal is that you are taking women to bed instead of your husband. Should this come to light, should I come to light, the heritage of all of Sebastian's heirs will come into question. This is a very dangerous choice." Nathaniel's knuckles whitened on the arm of his chair.

"This -- all of this -- has been a dangerous choice all the way through. I am a mage. And didn't you say Wardens can't have children? I'd think that solves the issue right there. Sebastian's heirs could not be yours." Bethany tipped her chin up, as she did when she knew she was winning.

"I... don't know so much if it is that we can't have children as it is just substantially more difficult." Though that was, at least, another argument in her favour. He was less likely to turn this into a disaster than any other man. "We still shouldn't take unnecessary risks."

"I think you will find this is a perfectly necessary risk," Bethany said, eyes glittering in amusement. "But, if it would make you feel better, consider yourself a hold-over until I can offer my favourite pirate the... position. That's not too much of a risk, is it?"

It was exactly the same risk, considering how likely they were to find Isabela. Still, Bethany had a way of making everything sound so Maker-damned reasonable.

"Or until Sebastian gets his head out of his ass," Nathaniel amended. He suspected they were more likely to find Isabela.

"You really do have such a Fereldan face, do you know that?" Bethany tipped her head to the side, studying the lines.

"As Elissa keeps reminding me," Nathaniel huffed, amid a flood of memories. "And as my father used to say, a Fereldan face is meaningless, if it belongs to the wrong Fereldan. He blamed my mother for my nose." Blamed his mother for it in that she must have been sleeping with the Teyrn of Gwaren for him to have this particular beak. But, these were not the thoughts for right now. When he was about to ... sleep with another man's wife. Perhaps this was an appropriate time, after all.

Bethany, of course, misinterpreted the statement. "Well, your mother must have been very pretty, indeed. And yet, you manage to continue to evade the point. I remain unconvinced of your interest."

Nathaniel's lips tightened, and he looked away, turmoil between his ears and a clenching in his chest as he shoved his chair back and stood, in one motion. "Take what you will of me, Lady, but remember I am a Warden, and like Anders, you will need to tell me when to stop. I would not ask to keep you as long as it would take."

"I've never had Anders," Bethany replied, after a bit.

"What?" Nathaniel's eyes rose to her face in surprise. "Have you not? I would have thought -- in the same house and -- My mistake. I meant nothing ill by it."

"No, my brother wouldn't allow it." A small smile crept across Bethany's lips. "You'll have to tell me all about him."

Nathaniel's face twisted. "I would need a drink before I would consider talking about that, the bottomless kind of drink." He wasn't sure if his half-remembered time with Anders was helping or hindering the situation. "And your brother was... probably right. Sleeping with a Warden is --"

"I know what it is," Bethany assured him, slipping into the space between him and the desk. "From second-hand experience. You can help me fill in the details." She looked coyly up at him, her eyes a startling blue against dark lashes.

Nathaniel bent to kiss her, just to test the feel of it against his lips, certain still that this was a terrible idea.

Bethany settled a hand in the middle of his back, just enough to assure him that she did not object to the feel of his lips or the taste of his tongue. Still, he did not touch her anywhere else. "Nathaniel," she muttered against his lips, "is this a class problem? Because I'm not really a princess..."

"Maybe," Nathaniel admitted, drawing back just enough to breathe. But, mostly, she wasn't Elissa, who was, now, very clearly alive and plotting their wedding. And yes, Elissa would be overjoyed to hear he'd finally gotten around to this, but somewhere in the back of his head, he was still sure there needed to be guilt. That somehow, he was betraying his mother's memory. Committing some unspeakable wrong of the sort everyone around him was committing without a thought and then lying about. At least there wouldn't be any lying, he told himself. He was doing what Elissa asked -- what Sebastian asked -- and most importantly, what Bethany asked. And she had asked him, and he hadn't turned her down, but... it still didn't sit quite right, quite where he wanted it to.

"You worry too much," Bethany assured him, nudging a stack of papers aside and sliding her shapely bottom onto his desk.

"I like to think I worry just enough," Nathaniel insisted, all too aware of the press of her knees against his legs, that they would change to the press of thighs if he moved forward just a little. In the end it was Bethany who pulled him into that space, and he dodged her lips to glance at the door.

"It's already locked," Bethany said, her lips slipping to his jaw instead, one hand curling around the back of his neck.

Nathaniel gave her a flat look, his hands landing, safely, at her waist. 

Bethany breathed a chuckle against his skin, reading his face. "I locked it because we were going to have a sensitive discussion, not because I knew I would end up seducing you. That was a happy accident."

"Accident, my left testicle," Nathaniel retorted, tartly. "You had a plan and you executed it admirably. And I am now at your disposal for the next half candle or so."

"Only half a candle?" Bethany batted her eyes, and then sighed. "It is the middle of the day, isn't it. Let us make the best of this, then. There will be time enough for more, later."

Nathaniel's chest clenched, even as his desire surged. He definitely wanted her. That would never be a question. But, whether he wanted to want her... But, that was foolishness, and he shoved it away, bringing his lips down to hers, again, as her fingers toyed with his buttons. He wanted her, and she would have him, and then he would sip Fereldan whiskey as he worked until the ache in his groin subsided. In time, she would tire of him, and move on to some pretty young woman.


	113. Chapter 113

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anton and Varric have conspired to get Donnic and Aveline to go on a fantastic date for their anniversary.

The winter was nearly over, and Kirkwall was mild as ever, as Donnic led his beautiful wife across Hightown. Camellia blooms flashed red against the eternally grey skies, and Donnic stretched up to pluck a low-hanging flower, handing it to Aveline.

"Where are we going, Donnic? You still haven't answered me, and we've passed my favourite restaurant." Aveline felt ridiculous out of her armour, but Donnic insisted she looked incredible and that no one in their right mind would lose respect for their guard captain, just because she wore an incredible Antivan gown, on her anniversary.

"Varric and Anton wanted to make sure we actually took a day off, this year," Donnic teased, leading her around another corner. "So, Varric gave us--"

Aveline recognised the front of the building, immediately. "No. Is this a joke? Is this some sort of prank? I'll kill Anton. With Varric. I'll kill him with the dwarf and throw the dwarf in the bay."

"What?" Donnic looked terribly dismayed. "But, Varric's promised us a private table in the gardens, just you and me, and Anton's had a full seven courses delivered -- all of your favourites. I checked the menu, myself, when he sent it. We just wanted to do something special for you, this year. Anton was threatening to make it a law that we weren't allowed to work, today, so I... I told him he should bribe you with a nice dinner, instead. And then Varric got involved. And now, we've got a whole night together in the fanciest place in Kirkwall."

It was hard to keep scowling when Donnic looked so earnest, and, really, compared to her original attempts at courtship, this was downright romantic. She fidgeted with the sleeves of her gown, feeling exposed without her armour and trying not to melt at the look on Donnic's face. She failed.

"I... all right," Aveline sighed, more resigned than pleased. "But the moment, the _moment_ , that I suspect Varric or Anton of anything underhanded, we are leaving."

Donnic didn't point out that he clearly already did suspect them. "That seems fair," he said, taking her hand so she would stop trying to adjust the fit of her dress. "But, they are your friends, and it wouldn't hurt to try it out."

"Oh, I'm sure there are plenty of ways it can hurt, especially them." Still, Aveline allowed her husband to lead her inside, even opening the door for her.

An assortment of elves, all well-dressed, moved through the front hall, bearing trays and towels to other parts of the building and its expansive gardens. One slim woman stepped forward to greet the couple, her accent still thickly Tevinter. "You are Varric's friends! I recognise you. Come, let me show you to your table." She smiled brightly and gestured toward the doors that led into the side of the garden. "Would you like something warm to drink? It is a bit cold, for Kirkwall."

"Do you have that tea with the roses and mint?" Donnic asked, following the woman outside.

"It is the guard captain's favourite, is it not?" The woman smiled, leading them through nearly invisible gaps in the flowered hedges, winding deeper into the garden. "Of course we have it. We were expecting you."

The path doubled back, at the end, opening up into a round grove of flowering trees, with a warm fountain in the centre. A reclining couch sat to one side of the fountain and a long table faced the other side, with only two seats that offered a lovely view of the water and the flowers beyond.

"Your tea and the first course should be here, shortly. Please let me know if there's anything else we can do to make your evening more enjoyable." The elven woman's smile broadened as she watched Donnic's eyes widen at the sight of this niche.

"This all looks lovely," Donnic stammered out. "Thank you."

The elf dipped her head in a bow and disappeared back the way they had come. Donnic allowed himself to take in the glittering fountain, to take in the leafy canopy that let in dappled light and added another patterned layer to Aveline's dress. And then he focused on his wife, on the contemplative set of her features, and waited for her to cast judgement.

Aveline cut him a glanced and blew out a sigh. "Yes, all right, this is... really very beautiful."

Beaming, he gestured her over to the table and reached past her to pull out her chair for her before she could. "Still mad at Varric?"

"Maybe a bit less so... but I'm reserving judgement."

"And Anton?"

"Oh, I'm always mad at Anton. He's good at giving me more reasons to be."

"Has he done anything really worth mentioning since that ghost thing?" Donnic asked with a chuckle. "That was ... memorable, if not what I might have done."

"What _you_ might have done--" Aveline huffed and fiddled with her sleeve. "I don't think that was what anyone might have done, except it was Anton, who always has to make an ass of himself in the most notable possible way, every chance he gets."

"It's why he's the viscount."

"It's why he's a pain in my ass. But, no, he hasn't changed any more laws or set himself on fire or jumped off a roof, lately. I don't know if I like the constant influx of Orlesian elves, but do I really get to say anything about it? I was a refugee from Ferelden. There's just... so many of them. And the city's barely settled from all the Fereldans."

A different elf appeared, carrying a Tevinter-style urn with a dragon spout and two cups hung from the curved tail at the top. He set it in the middle of the table, bowed, and left as quickly as he'd come.

"I haven't arrested many of them," Donnic said, shrugging, as he unhooked a cup and filled it with tea for Aveline. "They seem almost unnaturally law-abiding, overall. Given what we've seen of the rest of Orlais, it really makes me wonder. And now, with the rumours the Empress has disappeared... It can't possibly be true, of course. She's just rallying her forces privately. It'll be like that thing where Maric rose up out of the ground in Gwaren, a month after his death."

Aveline laughed dryly, her breath making the steam shiver. "She could take some pointers from Anton. Dramatically coming back from the dead sounds like it should be more of an Orlesian thing, anyway."

Donnic chuckled, pouring a cup for himself as well. "Don't give the Orlesians -- or Anton -- any ideas. They are good at producing their own drama."

Aveline hummed and sipped at her tea. It was a bit too hot, still, but it had been prepared just the way she liked it. Between the tea warming her hands, and the fountain trickling nearby, their niche was decidedly peaceful. If the food turned out decent, this evening might prove to be pleasant after all.

"A whole garden of beautiful red flowers." Donnic leaned closer and rested his head against his wife's. "All for my favourite beautiful red flower."

"You're such a fucking sap, Donnic," Aveline laughed, nudging him with one elbow, as she studied the fountain. Four chained qunari poured buckets of water into the pool, the upper bowl resting on their horns. At the top, two elves kissed, water flowing down from where their hands met beside their shoulders.

"That's a syrup, I'll have you know. The kind you put on sweet cakes," he protested, turning his head to follow her gaze. "It's a weird fountain, isn't it? Especially here."

"It's Tevinter. I think 'tactless' is one of their guiding principles." Aveline huffed and rolled her eyes, but she got up to take a closer look, taking her cup of tea with her. "It's warm!" she noticed, getting close enough to feel the heat radiating from the pool. "I wonder where the runes are hidden..."

"Warm? Maker, this place _is_ fancy." Donnic rose and joined his wife, his teacup in hand. He dipped his fingers into the water. "Clever. Wouldn't mind something like this at home." At Aveline's dry look, he rushed to clarify. "The self-warming water, that is. Not the tactless Tevinter fountain. I'm not sure that would fit in the yard."

"It would, but then it would cease to be a yard." As she spoke, Aveline felt along the scalloped edges of the pool, looking for a seam in the rock, a hidden switch. Whoever had enchanted the fountain had skilfully hidden the runes, but Aveline always did like a mystery. Then her fingers alighted on a floral motif, its edges not quite flush with the stone in a way that did not fit the rest of the fountain.

"You find something?" Donnic asked, crouching down beside the stone flower Aveline's fingers had stopped on.

"Maybe where the rune goes," Aveline muttered, distractedly, trying to figure out how to open the panel.

"Try pushing instead of pulling?" Donnic suggested. "It might open somewhere else."

Aveline leaned into it and the exotic petals sank easily into the side of the fountain, opening a channel in the centre of the flower. "You've got a good eye, Donnic. I knew there was a reason I married you."

Donnic stared, stunned. "You should look at that from this angle. That, ah, you know what that looks like? It's, er, the sign from the, ah... from the Blooming Rose. Which is... you know... not really a flower."

"You are absolutely imagining things."

"I am not."

Aveline's fingers squelched into the slick passage as she investigated it further, looking for the heat rune. But, the warm gel in the hidden hole made her pause and rethink that investigation. "It's greasy."

"It would be."

Horror dawned on Aveline's face as she slid her dripping fingers out. She stared down at her fingers as though she had never seen them before, her cheeks turning a splotchy shade of red. "I am going to kill that dwarf."

Aveline reached for a sword that was not there, and decided that gripping a sword with slippery fingers was not the best idea anyway. She was about to wipe them off on her dress, only to grimace and wipe them on the grass instead.

"Now, now," Donnic tried to soothe her. "I'm sure this wasn't part of his, uh... anniversary gift. The tea is still nice, right? And dinner is on its way."

"Oh, I am certain he did this on purpose," she said darkly, pushing herself to her feet and turning away from the 'flower'. "Now find me something sharp."

The tinkle of a bell preceded the arrival of more elves, laden this time with covered trays. "Your first course, messeres," one said pleasantly as they set up the table.

Good. Maybe the knives would be sharp, though a fork would do in a pinch. 

"Can you tell me the history of this fountain?" Donnic asked the elves. "It's... er... quite a design."

"Hasn't got a history," one elf informed him, lifting the cover off a tray of exotic fruits, sliced and circled around bowls of sauce. "As far as I know, we actually bought this one. There's other things here that were imported from our m-- from Magister Danarius's estate, but not in this room."

"Well, at least there's that." Donnic turned a sympathetic eye on Aveline and handed her a napkin.

"If the two of you are thinking of making use of it, just put the red card on the hook at the bend in the passage, and we'll hold dinner for you," the elf offered.

"No." Aveline's voice was like thunder, and her eyes flashed. "Dinner is fine. Thank you."

"Of course," the elf said, dipping his head. "Please enjoy!"

The elves took their leave again, leaving Donnic alone with Aveline, who looked somewhere between furious and furiously hungry, judging by the assessing looks she kept giving the fruit.

"Come on," Donnic coaxed. "Let's at least try the food and maybe pretend that the fountain is just a normal fountain. Well, normal by Tevinter standards anyway."

Aveline was all tense lines and pursed lips, but she gave in. "Fine," she grumbled. "If Varric is lucky, I might wait to kill him until after dessert."

Donnic grinned, and they returned to their seats with their cooling tea and a napkin that had worked much better than grass. "We should definitely see about a self-warming bath, but maybe one without the... extra features this fountain provides."

"There should be only one hole in my bath, and that's the one the water should run out when I pull the stopper. And it should not be greased. And I should not discover my husband has been putting that hole to alternate uses." Aveline picked up a slice of a juicy, green fruit and dipped it in one of the sauces.

"I'm not a Hawke, Aveline," Donnic scoffed, looking mildly offended as he helped himself to a strawberry. That looked identifiable and tasty.

"There was a time when I might have considered Anton," Aveline admitted, savouring the taste of white chocolate and the sweet bite of ... whatever that fruit was. "But, that was when he was funny and useful. Before he turned into a one-man crime syndicate."

"And somehow, he's still viscount," Donnic sighed dipping another strawberry into a purple-swirled chocolate sauce. "I mean, he has gotten over it, hasn't he?"

"Being viscount? I think he's very much over that, yes."

Donnic chuckled. "I meant more the one-man crime syndicate, but... You know what? I don't want to know."

"A wise conclusion where any Hawke is involved, especially Anton." Aveline directed a despairing head shake at the next bite of fruit, and... okay, this was actually rather nice. "I have no idea what this is," she said, pausing to lick at the juice that dropped down her chin, "but it is delicious. Try it!"

Donnic hummed around the rest of his strawberry, eyeing the mysterious green fruit. "Are you going to hand feed it to me?" he teased.

And there was that splotchy shade of red on Aveline's cheeks again. "Not on your life," she huffed, the effect ruined by the barest curl of a smile.

Donnic chuckled again, dipping a second strawberry into the same sauce and held it up to her in offering, just in front of her lips. It was worth it for the way the splotches on her cheeks darkened to a uniform shade.

"Donnic! You'll drip it on the table!" Aveline hissed, eyes widening.

"Well, then you'd best eat it quickly, wife!" Donnic chuckled and bumped the strawberry against her lips.

As the sauce beaded threateningly on the point of the strawberry, Aveline took all of it into her mouth in one bite, nipping it off just below the leaves as she glared at Donnic. "Thought you said you weren't a Hawke," she muttered with her mouth full.

"Well, I'm not!" Donnic deflated somewhat. "I might have gotten the idea from one. Fenris suggested it would be terribly romantic."

"Doesn't Fenris's husband object to dribbling sauce on things? As I recall, Artemis has a certain way about him." Aveline dabbed at the smear of sauce on her lip. "It's a good sauce though."

"Of course he objects. That's why he won't let it drip on anything!"

"I'm still not sure how that's romantic." Aveline shook her head and dipped another slice of fruit into the chocolate sauce Donnic had just fed her. "I can definitely see this sauce being romantic, though. That taste is perfect."

Donnic hummed in agreement, their chosen slices of fruit meeting in the same sauce dish and coming away covered in chocolate after a brief sparring match. So hand-feeding her slices of fruit was not her kind of romantic, but the smile on her face as she licked chocolate off her thumb told him he was doing something right, as did the lines on her face that spoke of laughter rather than stress. 

Perhaps Varric could make it through the night unstabbed.


	114. (Spring 9:40)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen finds the note Samson left him. He and Tim need to decide how to handle the problems that might be caused.

The note was sitting in the middle of his bed. Well, Samson's bed, really, but only because Cullen had been sleeping at home, lately, so Samson would have a room to himself while he recovered. Cullen hadn't actually been in the room in days. And there, in that shaky, spidery hand, was an explanation of... something.

 _Cullen--_  
_Sorry to leave you like this, but I have to go. It's my fault he's like this. I failed him, and I have to make it right, before I die, and that's getting a whole lot shorter. I'll find the cure and send it back with him, or I'll get us both killed. Either way, you can't protect us any more. We're going to do things you'll regret, but you can't blame him. You can't hold him responsible. They're my orders._  
_\-- Raleigh Samson (no longer 'Ser')_

Cullen burst out of the room, eyes wide as he rushed down the hall. "Have you seen Samson, today?" he asked everyone he passed on the way back to his office, but no one had -- not for more than a moment or two in the halls, and everyone said he'd seemed to be heading out somewhere, from the fact he was dressed as he'd been when he'd come home from Orlais.

There, Captain Thrask's door was open. Thrask would know. "Where's Samson?" Cullen demanded, wild-eyed, hands clutching the sides of the door frame.

Thrask blinked up at the Knight-Commander, startled by the harried look in his eyes. "Samson? Didn't he go to the clinic, a couple days ago? I figured they had him for a long treatment."

"Clinic?" Cullen glanced at the note again, hoping he had just read it wrong. "Did he tell you that?"

Thrask started to nod and then paused to think, brows knitting. "Well, he didn't _say_ he was going to the clinic, but... he didn't look well, and he kept going on about a cure. After yelling at Cassandra for... you know, I'm not even sure what for. She looked as confused as I was." Thrask's brows turned up in concern. "Oh dear. Should I have gone with him? Has something happened?"

"Is everything all right?" Another voice joined the conversation, and Cullen turned to see Tim holding a still-steaming cup of tea. "I heard you running down the hall."

"I'm not sure," Cullen answered. "Samson..."

Tim's eyes widened. "Oh dear. Has he gotten into trouble? I hope I didn't upset him too much the other week." He rotated the teacup in his hands.

"Upset him about what?" Cullen asked, taking a deep breath to keep his patience.

"He came to me asking if the rumours he'd heard about a cure for Tranquility were true. I told him I had no way of knowing, because I hadn't gone to that last meeting of the College, and that anyone who knew for sure was probably dead, now. I may have suggested the very idea of a cure for Tranquility might have been the reason for the massacre, and you know that I'm right, Commander."

"The cure for _Tranquility_?" Thrask looked utterly horrified. "Honestly, Commander, I thought he was talking about himself. I thought he was going to the clinic for a new treatment."

"Of course you did. That's the logical conclusion, if he didn't stop to explain, and I do know what he's like when he gets an idea in his head. He wouldn't have stopped to explain -- not nearly enough." Cullen rubbed a hand over his face and handed the note to Tim. "I expect he's taken Maddox with him."

"He would have, yes." Tim nodded, studying the note. "... It was never his fault. You know that. I know that. I don't know that he'll ever accept it. Your predecessor and her disregard for the law bear the full blame."

"And yet shifting the blame does not change Maddox's condition," Cullen sighed, running a hand through his curls. "And Samson feels responsible for him."

"I can't say I blame him," Tim said, handing the note back. "I'm burning to know if there really is a cure, and not just out of abstract curiosity. Any mage here -- or any mage who has lived here long enough to live through Meredith -- has had a friend made Tranquil and has feared being made Tranquil as well. Whether they are meant to use it or not, Tranquility is a weapon the Chantry can use against us."

Cullen wanted to argue with that, but he had seen Meredith first hand. "And as Samson discovered, lyrium is the weapon they use against _us_ ," he said, with a sigh. "I have always felt there was purpose to the Circles, at their very essence. That they should exist, if only to protect the populace from the dangers of untrained mages. But, at some point, perhaps right from the moment Emperor Drakon put the hunters in charge of their prey, the decisions made have been fuelled by fear and rage, and not by appropriate caution. The Circles are not places of learning; they are places for the exploitation of a dangerous resource. And we're _all_ prisoners, here -- even if the templars chose to join. They don't let you see what the lyrium does to you, until it's too late, until you've had enough that you can't walk away from it. I wanted to believe I was helping people. I think we all did, at some point. But, every day, the line moves a little further away from helping those in need and a little more toward promoting and supporting the idea that our wards, whom we are meant to protect from demons, are already evil and conspiring against the holy righteousness of the Divine and the Maker. And I don't like this, and I'm not going to stand for it." He paused. "Which you know."

Thrask had heard this a hundred times, and he couldn't disagree. "But, what do we do about Samson?"

"We wait for him to return, and we welcome him when he does." Cullen sighed and rested his head on the door frame, wishing the pain creeping up the back of his neck and pecking behind his eyes would stop. "He's right. We can't protect him, now. Not without bringing an Exalted March down -- which we're already barely avoiding. But, we can protect him, later. If he's captured, I want to know about it. Who do we have? Who can we trust in Orlais? The only thing we can do is move things out of his way, and I want that path as clear as we can make it."

"Orlais is burning to the ground, as we speak, and any contacts we have would be _inside_ the Order," Thrask reminded him. "Maybe the viscount knows someone?"

Cullen opened and closed his mouth, rubbed at the pinpricks of pain at his temples. "I suppose I could ask. The viscount has been known to listen to me, on occasion." The joke was as thin as his smile, and, really, were Anton's contacts the kind of people Cullen could trust? "In the mean time, make sure the Seeker doesn't catch wind of this. As far as she knows, he's going to Val Royeaux for treatment for his condition." He pinned Thrask and Tim with a meaningful look, and both men nodded.

"He said he heard through rumours," Tim said in a soft voice. "We may need to address those rumours before anyone comes up with another genius plan. The last thing we need is more mages up in arms over this."

"You'll have to do it. We've come a long way, but they're not going to trust me on something like this." Cullen shook his head and knocked it gently against the door frame a few times. "Tell them... tell them what you think they need to know, and then tell me. Obviously, we can't risk inciting a riot."

"There is no known cure, but in light of Meredith's violations ... something something, we're actively engaged in finding one," Tim suggested, flicking the hand not holding his tea. "I'll find the words. The sentiment's the important part. We have to tell them we're looking."

"Are we looking? Is looking going to bring the Divine's fist down on us?" Thrask cut in. "It's no good to tell them we're looking if we're not and worse if we're not and we get Marched on for something we weren't doing."

"I lost friends, Ser Thrask. Do you think I haven't been looking since I heard the first breath of it out of Val Royeaux?" Tim's gaze was sharp as the corner of his mouth curled. "But, Orsino was looking before I was. Half the books I want are already in that office. He found nothing -- or nothing he made note of. I can only pick up where he left off. There are signs it may not be an impossible experiment, but the Chantry has done an excellent job of suppressing the matter, thus far."

"There also wasn't a Seeker underfoot while Orsino was around," Thrask pointed out. "Placating the mages might enrage the Chantry. And the other way around."

"I will deal with Seeker Pentaghast," Cullen said as though he had any idea what he would say to her. "Tim, you deal with the mages. Thrask, you pray for us both."

Thrask huffed a laugh. "Aye, ser. Best of luck to you both."


	115. Chapter 115

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isabela vs Qunari... again.

"Captain! We've got a problem, and I think it's qunari." The spotter's arm was aimed right where the ship was headed, and the gleam in the distance was rapidly shaping up to be another ship. A metal-plated ship, raining fire down on the port of Carastes.

"No, Tevinter has a problem, and we're going to solve it for them, and then we're going to drink free beer until we pass out." Isabela laughed and waved to the stormbringers lounging in the shade of the sails. With a few gestures, she got them lined up facing the ship. "What's the distance?"

"More than three miles," the spotter called back. "You're not going to hit it at this distance, and they'll know we're here."

"Minna!" Isabela snapped her fingers and an elf stepped out of the line. "How hard can you punch the water? Can you wreck them without hitting the docks?"

"I can miss the docks with the ship, but the trick's going to be not washing them out." Minna put one foot up on the rail, squinting into the distance. "And not getting the attention of every kraken and sea serpent for miles."

"Then make them miss, until we get closer." Isabela stepped back and pointed toward the ship, as it grew larger before them, the fires in the harbour now close enough to see.

"Aye, Captain," Minna replied with a grin, rubbing her hands together and flexing her fingers in preparation.

Minna's magic hit with a might disproportionate to her tiny frame, force turning the steady bob of waves into something violent, and even from their distance they could see the dreadnought swaying. The spotter whooped, and the other mages cheered her on.

Isabela was too intent on their target to join in, though she gave Minna a satisfied nod. "Again." There had been a pause in the dreadnought's firing, but only a pause.

"Yes, Captain." 

The second hit was a bit weaker than the last, but it did its job. Isabela watched the dreadnought growing larger on the horizon. Just a bit closer...

"Give me distance!" Isabela shouted. "I want lightning on that metal! I don't care if you can't hit it hard, there's enough of you to make it count! If you can reach it, on three, count ten, and hit it again!"

She counted off and the first strikes landed, skipping across the bolts that held the plates together. The dreadnought was trying to turn, to come for them, instead of the port, but the sudden storm was doing the qunari no favours.

"Hit them again, Minna!" Isabela called, watching the ship steadily creep around. "Don't let them get close enough to fire, or we're done." 

The sea rolled under them, a gentle wave turning terrible before it slammed into the side of the dreadnought. Isabela kept barking orders, and this time, when the lightning struck, oars splintered and burst into flame. The dedication of the galley slaves wouldn't matter if they didn't have anything to row with.

Isabela allowed herself a grin, wide and sharp and more than a little terrifying. The dreadnought stalled, its turn half-finished and cannons pointing out to sea. She could picture frantic qunari barking orders, and it was an image she would savour later when she had the time. 

"Keep it up!" Isabela called out over the crash of waves and the crack of lightning. "Don't let off the pressure!" She turned that unsettling grin towards the mage nearest her. "What usually comes with lightning?"

"A storm?" the mage answered without missing a beat.

"Then let's give them the full experience!"

Clouds gathered in the distance, grey and ominous, and then there was rain pelting the ship between licks of lightning.

"Take out the guns," the spotter advised, having moved much closer to be the eyes of the conflict. "They can't sink us in one volley, but they can still hit us, if they can turn. And they can still hit the port, too."

"And this is why I like you, Eyes! You see the obvious." Isabela clapped him on the back, before looking back toward the mages. "Can we put it under?"

"Not without the rocks." Minna shook her head. "That's too much steel. I don't think we can tear it apart. Can't light it on fire. But, if we can force it into that jetty, it's going down."

"And then we have qunari on the beach," Eyes bellowed, to be heard over the winds that started just outside the range of their sails. "It's an invasion."

"Not if we come in behind them," Isabela assured him. "Pick off the leaders and leave the slaves."

"There's always room for more slaves in Tevinter?" Eyes drawled, giving Isabela a sharp look.

"I don't like drowning people who have no choice. It's the kind of thing that'll give you nightmares for the rest of your life." Isabela watched the mages chase the dreadnought toward the rocks. As they drew closer, it became clear that the storm had driven most of the city's defenders off the piers, and groups of archers and artillerymen huddled under the balconies of the taverns that faced the harbour, watching and waiting.

They were close enough now for Isabela to see the sparks as the qunari tried to fire their cannons, close enough to see when they became too waterlogged to even produce sparks. Their main weapons were down, and the battle had tipped in their favour, for now. Isabela prayed there were no saarebas on their ship, but she imagined they would have come face to face with a fire ball if there were.

Sweat made Minna's hair cling to her temples, but she continued casting, jaw set and determined. She paused only long enough for Isabela to press a lyrium potion into her hand. They were close now, so close. Enough to give her spells more leverage, enough for her to count the horned heads on the dreadnought, enough to spot the spears they readied in a desperate last defence. 

But, the waves swept across the dreadnought's deck, driving the ship back and throwing warriors into the sea. The jetty drew closer, and Isabela called for her crew to slow the ship, before they, too, met the rocks. But, this close, every bolt of lightning counted. The sea rolled violently, as it recoiled from the jetty, and Isabela's ship rocked dangerously on the waves, but the dreadnought nearly rolled onto its side as Minna's next wave hit it high.

On the shore, the city's defenders started to catch on to what was happening, and they raced toward the jetty, to pick off the survivors of the crash they still awaited. They were in position as the dreadnought wrenched onto the point of the jetty, the air full of the scream of metal tearing, as the water continued to batter the wreck, pouring in through the oar holes and the gun ports.

Survivors limped from the wreckage, and though they had to know they were trapped and beaten, they fought all the more fiercely, levering themselves up on swords and spears, even if a spell or an arrow took them down before they could bring their weapons to bear. A waste, but Isabela wasn't about to pity them.

Once the city's defenders seemed to have the situation in hand, Isabela nodded in satisfaction and turned back to her crew. "All right, you sods, let's bring her into port!"

A smattering of voices called out, "Aye, Captain!" By the time they had made port, the skies had cleared to a crystalline blue, the seas calm, the dreadnought's remains the only evidence of the magic they had thrown about.


	116. Chapter 116

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lord Seeker declares war. Cassandra is not amused. Alain's got some guilt, as he realises where Andoral's Reach is.

Cullen rubbed his eyes and tried to focus on the document in front of him. As much as Cullen was one to appreciate the quiet, the near silence just made the exasperated sighs from the other side of the room seem louder in comparison. He peered at Cassandra, where she had commandeered Keran's desk for her stay, and wondered just what she was reading to put that disgusted look on her face.

He never got the chance to ask or to appreciate the rest of that almost-silence, for one of the Tranquil swept into the room and fixed him with her glassy-eyed stare. 

"There is a message for you, Knight-Commander," she said, handing him another sheet of paper to add to the pile already on his desk. "It is urgent." Her monotone voice made it sound anything but.

Cullen sighed and began reading, as the Tranquil left. "What?" he muttered after a few sentences. "Seeker, did you know about this?"

"Can't tell you if you don't tell me what it is," Cassandra replied, not raising her eyes from the pages in her hand.

"The Circle of Magi has been dissolved, by order of the College of Enchanters, and ... ah... your... Well, your boss doesn't seem to have taken that well." Cullen cleared his throat, as he absorbed the next part of the message. The Lord Seeker had declared war on the College of Enchanters and all other mages in Thedas, declaring the vote a nullifying act against the Nevarran Accord, itself. "He's done away with the Nevarran Accord."

"Excuse me?" Cassandra was on her feet in an instant. "There must be a mistake! You can't just ... discard the Nevarran Accord and centuries of tradition because the vote finally passed! There are negotiations, yet! There must be a mistake," she insisted, again, snatching the page out of Cullen's hands.

Enchanter Tim burst through the door in counterpoint to the Tranquil who had breezed through earlier, eyes wild and horned hat askew, another sheet of paper clutched in his hand.

" _Have you seen this_?" he demanded, shaking the paper at both Cullen and Cassandra.

"I imagine you just received the same message," Cullen sighed, indicating the letter in Cassandra's hands. She was still reading and rereading, her face white. 

Somewhere, buried under the forced calm, Cullen was panicking. Or he would panic, later, when he was alone, away from Cassandra's sighs or Tim's wild-eyed stare.

"I don't know what this means for us," he said, "but the Divine has called for a Conclave, and that should give us hope."

"Hope?" Tim inhaled like he might start raving, only to have another thought. "We've already been allocated a budget, for this year, but we should find out if this vote means we're no longer receiving Chantry support, in the future. There's time to make adjustments in the curriculum -- to teach the skills we're going to need to get by without that money."

"Then you agree? We keep things as they are, as long as we are able?" Cullen asked, one hand squeezing the back of his neck as his eyes clenched shut.

"We are not at war, here. We already fought that war, and you are what we won from it. I see no reason to go to war among ourselves, unless the Seeker disagrees, and there is only one of her, begging your pardon, Ser Cassandra." Tim shrugged, almost apologetic, if not for the calculating edge in his eyes.

"Kirkwall is an unusual experiment, but I see no reason to dismantle it just because everyone else has gone mad," Cassandra assured them. "I must contact ... someone. I would say the Lord Seeker, but I lack the rank to try. But, I serve the Divine, as well, and much more closely. I will see if I cannot find a way to keep Kirkwall intact, if only by promising its neutrality, in the greater conflict."

"I don't know if we can promise that," Cullen admitted, still trying to work out that knot that seemed to stretch from his skull to his shoulders. "If the apostates come, seeking shelter, we will welcome them, if they can follow the law, like any other citizen of Kirkwall."

"Our policy on magical refugees is no different to our policy on any other refugees," Tim agreed, horns shifting as he nodded. "The viscount has been very willing to work with us in that regard. But, if there are to be more, you may want to assign a few men to Captain Aveline, just to keep things from getting out of hand."

"You might have more than a few refugees, if this plays out the way the Lord Seeker intends, which..." She shook her head, and this time Cullen agreed with the disgusted noise she made. "I cannot believe it. It is madness. The Divine must put a stop to this before there is more bloodshed." Cassandra left the message on Cullen's desk and returned to hers, too frenzied to sit as she started to scrawl out a message.

* * *

* * *

"It's all right, probably," Ella said, stepping off the ferry onto the dock and holding out her hand to Keran. "I mean, you heard Tim and Cullen -- the revolution already happened in Kirkwall, and we just have to wait for the rest of Thedas to sort it out."

Keran took Ella's hand for balance, joining her on the dock. "Yeah, that's great, until this Lord Seeker asshole declares whatever you call an Exalted March when the Divine doesn't want one."

"Oh, please, do you think Anton and Merrill would let that happen?" Ella scoffed, shaking her head.

"It's going to take more than well-intentioned nobles to hold off an Exalted March." Alain leapt easily into the space they left behind, and the three headed for the stairs.

"Cullen and Captain Aveline, then. We have good, strong leaders who know how to hold off quite a lot, if you'll remember. Whatever a March brings, it's not going to bring ancient Tevinter statues. Men, we can handle." Ella laughed and wrapped her free arm around Alain's waist.

"I really never thought the vote would pass," Keran admitted, turning to walk backward up the stairs, so he wouldn't have to let go of Ella's hand. "Especially not after what happened at the White Spire. Who knew there were enough Enchanters left to vote? And where the blight is Andoral's Reach, anyway? Did they flee to Tevinter just to get a vote in?"

"It's in Orlais," Alain said quietly. "It's an ancient Tevinter ruin, in northern Orlais." A shiver ran down his spine. That was where the last phylactery had been leading them, but Samson had been so sick already, and the rumours about the place... If even half of those had been true, they'd never have made it back to Kirkwall. But, the mages had already settled there, by the time he and Samson had stopped on the road. If they'd only gone a little farther, maybe they'd have made a difference. Maybe they'd have found a healer sooner.

Ella caught the shift in Alain's demeanour, the way his gaze cut down and to the side, away from them. "What is it?" she asked, the arm around his waist squeezing just a bit.

Alain shook his head, tried to dismiss the thought with a smile, but Ella was not convinced. Now Keran was watching him expectantly too, or was watching him as best he could while still keeping an eye on where they were going, walking sideways to avoid bumping into another set of pedestrians.

"Just wondering if Samson and I were right to stop when we did," he admitted. "We weren't far from Andoral's Reach when we turned around."

Alain expected the platitudes and words of comfort before they came, knew that Ella was right that Samson had been too sick to continue, knew that Keran was right that something like this was bound to happen at some point anyway. Still, guilt was a weight in his stomach he could never quite shake off.

"But, you had to get him back to a healer," Keran insisted, tripping over a nug that was attempting to sunbathe in the only shaft of sunlight that reached the ground, in this part of Lowtown. It squeaked and hopped off angrily. "Sorry, nug-- Listen, Alain, a lot of mages in your position would've thrown him in the sea and run off to become Isolationists. I mean, you've heard Cullen say it: Samson was really sick, and it's a good thing you got him back here. What would have changed if you went up there? They had to have known what happened in Kirkwall. It's not exactly news. If they wanted to come, they'd be here."

"I might have found him a proper healer," Alain sighed, rubbing his face and watching the cobblestones go by. "There's ... it's what's left of the College of Enchanters. They're brilliant. There are Spirit Healers in the College."

"And you might not ever have gotten close enough to try. Walking into an ancient fortress full of angry mages, with a sick templar on your arm, sounds like a great way to get killed before you get the chance to say anything at all," Ella pointed out. "Come on, we'll get Tyrone to make you that tea Lady Bethany likes. A few pastries, and it'll all look different."

"I do like tea and pastries," Alain relented, though that weight was still in his stomach.

"Besides," Keran added, "Samson's getting treatment now, right? In Val Royeaux? He wouldn't have made it back to Kirkwall without you, and now he has some fancy Orlesian healers looking at him! He'll be fine, and you both did the best you could."

Alain hummed distantly in agreement as Keran picked a table for them. He wasn't sure about the 'he'll be fine' part, but he appreciated the sentiment. He also wasn't sure about those fancy healers in Orlais, but that was just a suspicion, one he swallowed down.

Ella pored over the menu as though she didn't know it by heart by now, Alain did the same as though he didn't order the same food every time, and somewhere amidst the tea and companionship it was easy to forget that there was a world in turmoil outside of Kirkwall's walls.


	117. Chapter 117

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samson and Maddox stop for a drink, where they're approached with an offer Samson can't refuse.

Samson knew he probably shouldn't be drinking, but not drinking made a spectacle of him, and he preferred the calm that took him after a couple of pints. He'd been trying to reintroduce Maddox to the idea of being alive, but... what use, yet? The cure wasn't in their hands. Still, Samson liked to think he'd get through eventually. At least a little. Being away from people who regarded Maddox as part of the furniture had to be helping.

He brought the beers back to the table where Maddox sat, reading. They'd found Maddox attracted less attention if he was actually focused on something, rather than staring into space.

"Drink up," Samson said, trying to smile as he sank into his seat, joints crackling in protest. "It's actually not bad, here. Alain and I were through, months ago, and we stopped for a few, here."

"The taste is sweet and inoffensive," Maddox remarked, after a sip. "Thank you."

This time, Samson's smile was real. He knew Maddox was just reproducing polite behaviour so he wouldn't stand out, but ... in the back of his head, he could still hear Maddox when he was young and foolish -- they were both foolish, then. ' _Thanks, Ser Samson. I don't know what I'd do without you!_ '

Still, Samson could feel eyes on them. On him, not Maddox, for a change. Someone in here had spotted them, and he just hoped it wasn't a pissed off apostate who knew what he was.

"There is a cloaked man watching us," Maddox said without looking up. He said it the same way he said everything else, like he was boredly discussing the weather, but at least Samson knew he wasn't getting paranoid in his old age. "He does not seem hostile."

Well, that answered Samson's next question, at least. Samson turned in his seat as surreptitiously as he could, following the prickle up his spine that told him where the stare was coming from. He expected the starer, a young man with dark hair and shadowed eyes, to look away and make himself unobtrusive, but he kept looking directly at Samson and -- did he just _wink_?

Samson turned back around, reaching for his drink. "Well. That was weird." The prickle up his spine was still there, and Samson fought the urge to glare back over his shoulder.

"The man is getting up from his seat," Maddox narrated. "He is approaching us."

"What?" Samson's hand dropped to the hilt of his sword, but then the winking, staring person appeared at his elbow, sliding into the chair next to his as though invited.

"Hello there, handsome," purred their guest as he eyed Samson up and down. "Come here often?"

"We're not looking for company," Samson declared, confused eyes squinting up at the man. "Sorry if we gave you the wrong impression."

"Ah, a more committed relationship, then. Good for you." The young man smiled, slyly. "But, perhaps there's something else I can do for you, Ser Templar."

 _Ser Templar_? Samson's eyes hardened. "Who are you and what makes you think I'm a templar?"

The young man's smile widened, a grotesque counterpoint to the dark rings under his eyes.  "Call me Imshael." He waved to the bartender and gestured for a drink. "And how do I know? Well, the ramrod spine and Tranquil accompaniment make an excellent case. But, I can tell you're sick. It's in the way you move. It's the lyrium, isn't it? Bad shit, that templar lyrium."

"Assuming anything you said was true, why would it be your business at all?" Samson wasn't sure why he was entertaining the man at all, but the raw magic rolling off him spoke of this maybe having been one of the enchanters thought to have been killed, in Val Royeaux. He certainly seemed to have the kind of knowledge an enchanter would have. A healer, maybe? Could he be so lucky?

"Because I can take care of that, for you. I can make it stop hurting all the time." Imshael smiled at the elf who set his drink on the table, pressing coins into the slender hand, once it was empty. "The next round's on me."

They all waited until the elf was far enough off not to hear them, and then Imshael began again. "Now, I can help you, or I can help him." He pointed to Maddox, eyes still on Samson. "I can bring back his senses and his will. Ah, that's it, isn't it. He's the one you care about."

Samson sat up even more stiffly than he had been. "And how, exactly, would you be able to do that? You can't reverse Tranquility." One mage was no threat, not to him even in his weakened state, but Samson found himself checking the exits anyway, a smite ready if he needed it.

The stranger's smile was indulgent, even patronising. "That's actually not quite true," he leaned in to whisper. "They talked about it, you know, at the White Spire. Said there had been a cure under everyone's noses all along. Such a mess." He shook his head and sat back, taking a sip of his drink. "But from the look you're giving me, I think you already knew that."

Samson clutched the edge of the table with white knuckles. Across from him, Maddox had set aside his reading. "And you know this cure?"

The man smiled and hummed an affirmative.

"What do you want?" Because there was no way it would be that easy. The Maker hadn't exactly favoured him before, so why start now?

"Your anger and your force of will." Imshael held up a finger as he took another drink. "I offer you this opportunity in exchange for you also accepting another. There is a man I know who is looking for an enduring warrior with the will to oppose the institution that visited this upon both of you. It will be a long and difficult road, and that is why I will consider it a cost, but a victory, there, would render you both free at last. So really, all I ask is that you take my gift and then go help yourselves further with it. A tiny price to pay, in the end, for an incomparable reward."

"I don't know what good an old templar's going to do you. I'll be dead soon enough." Samson laughed, bitterly.

"Or, you could accept my offer on your own behalf." Imshael shrugged, casually. "But, know that I can only help one of you. Both of you..." He looked at his hands for a long moment, and then back to Samson. "It would just be too much."

"And my service is enough in exchange? Even in this condition?" Samson asked, watching Imshael's face, carefully.

"Yes," said Imshael, "though there are, perhaps, some more mundane efforts that could slow your symptoms. It would not be a cure, not like what I am offering you, but it would be enough to ensure you are strong enough to uphold your end of the bargain."

The word 'bargain' didn't quite sit well with Samson, even if that was what this was. "And this friend of yours, he's just a man? Not a demon or anything?"

"Just a man," Imshael assured him. "Born as human as you. No demons needed, just a vendetta that reaches to the sky."

"And you?" Samson pressed, his stare unwavering. "You were also born just as human as me?"

Imshael's lips thinned, but he answered, tugging at one ear, "Not _just_ as human, but once I showed my power, no one asked too closely after my heritage."

Heritage? That put Samson in mind of that elf-blooded boy he'd tried to help once, Feyn-something. So, part elf, then.

For the first time, Maddox spoke up. "You bargain with my future, yet you do not ask me." Anyone else would have sounded offended, and Samson filled in the emotion he liked to think Maddox would be showing if he could. "I do not want this."

"What?" Samson looked startled. "But, that's what we're doing here. That's why we've come this far."

"Later, maybe. But, not now." Maddox's expression remained vacant and unchanged. "It is too close. I do not want to feel the years that have been taken from me, now. But, we are away from the Gallows. When things have settled, then it will be time. If you accept this cure for yourself, we can find another way for me. This man has said it is real, so we can have it, even without him. I know you are concerned that no one will protect me, when you are gone, but if you take this cure, you will not be gone, and we can go on."

"If I do this," Samson said, after a moment's contemplation, "I do it for you." His eyes shifted to Imshael. "If we do this, does he have to be cured now, or is it something that could still be done after we pay off our debt?"

"You're welcome to pay in advance. That's an uncommon offer, you know. But, I will ensure the cure is available whenever you are ready for it -- whenever you ask for it, I will make it available to you. But, that is the extra cost of not accepting it, now. You will need to _ask_ for it, later." Imshael shrugged and waved a hand, as if that were nothing. "But, you will be working for our soon-to-be mutual acquaintance. You will have no difficulty reaching me."

Samson nodded, swallowed past the sour taste of his beer. Across from him, Maddox frowned as though he were trying to remember the expression. "All right. I'll do it. Provided you hold up your end of the bargain and that friend of yours really isn't a demon." He was going to give himself splinters the way he was clutching the table.

Imshael beamed, the ease of his smile in sharp contrast to the mask-stiff frown on Maddox's face. "Ah, excellent! But first..." He pulled back the side of his cloak to rummage through a pouch at his belt. What he drew out, he kept within the shadow of his cloak, but Samson could see it glowing red through his fingers. "Your... medicine, I guess you could call it. It won't heal your sickness, like I said, but it will ease the symptoms."

When Imshael held out the glowing red vial, Samson narrowed his eyes. He already knew its texture, knew how it would sing against his tongue. He would say he'd never seen lyrium that colour before, but he'd watched Meredith die.

Just the same, he held out his hand. What was it going to do, kill him? If it gave him the power she'd had in that last battle, the Chantry wouldn't stand a chance.

Imshael set the vial in his palm, following the exchange with a satisfied smile. "Once you drink it, that will be your word. You will meet my acquaintance, and you will probably not see me, unless your friend finally decides to cash in your advance payment."

"Where do I need to be?" Samson asked, uncorking the vial and letting the sweet, bright smell wash over him.

Imshael slid a tightly folded piece of paper to Maddox. "Your friend will know the way. Don't lose that -- it's the only copy you're getting, and if you don't show up, I'm going to have to assume you tried to take advantage of my generosity."

Maddox unfolded the paper and studied it, before wadding it up and sinking it in his beer. "We will arrive as expected."

"He never forgets anything, any more," Samson said, shrugging. The vial called to him, an ache deep in his bones desired the soothing that would come of the first sip. Even the smallest amount.

He lifted the lyrium to his lips and drank.

The raw power of it rushed through his veins in a way lyrium hadn't done in more years than he could remember, lighting up his senses, teasing his nerves. He could taste the sourness of his own lyrium-laden sick-sweat in the air, and that thought gave him pause -- had he become so foul? What had Maddox not mentioned to him? But, that was gone as the sweet echo of the potion surged within him, the taste seeping out from under his tongue. Yes, this truly was a lyrium of some sort, but so much better than what the Chantry'd been giving them. So much better than he'd been able to scrounge off the Carta, down by the docks.

His entire body throbbed with strange desires as this new lyrium pulsed through his veins. Yes, it would kill him -- it had to. That was the nature of lyrium, wasn't it? But, first he'd tear everything down. Burn the Grand Cathedral and plough it into the earth. Put his sword through the throats of the people who decided his torment and the brutal disregard for the well being of generations of men just like him was an acceptable price for an army of the faithful that couldn't afford to ask questions. And then he would lead that army back into the light -- as many as would follow. History would not be allowed to repeat. When they died, there would be no more like them.

But, maybe that wouldn't be so soon. The strange, new lyrium burned through him, bright and sharp, pain clawing at him in its wake, but under that, he still felt strong. Younger, even, like the weight of years was being ripped out of him. What life would he have, if he lived through this war? What could still be his, if he stopped scrabbling just to live, and let it come to him? But, he knew what he wanted, what he hadn't dared to consider. He wanted someone to love him, like Maddox had once loved that poor girl. He could still see the sparkle in their eyes, each one talking about the other. He wanted someone who would talk about him like that. Someone to hold him and kiss him and promise him foolish things of no real consequence.

The warmth gathering in his chest ran down to pool between his hips, as those thoughts reached the next logical point. Someone to touch him, to caress his cold flesh and lick the lyrium-sweetness from his lips. Someone he could-- the sigh broke him from his reverie, and he realised it was his own, at the realisation that whatever heat might be between his hips, it went no further. That was still out of reach. Too many years of cheap dwarf-dust. What he really needed was someone who wouldn't mind. Someone who wouldn't _laugh_. Someone who wanted to take pleasure with him anyway.

And just maybe he'd live long enough to have it all.


	118. Chapter 118

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra finally catches up with Varric.

With all his work involving the Garden, Varric was becoming an expert on relaxation. The key, he found, was finding just the right balance: just the right heat for the hot tub, just the right drink in his hand... and just the right amount of cover to hide behind when an angry Seeker was screaming his name.

Unfortunately for Varric, he failed in that last step one afternoon, when Cassandra swept into his chosen niche, trailed by elves whose protests went unheeded. There was no time to hide behind the foliage, no time to grab his pants. There went his relaxing afternoon.

"Varric Tethras," Cassandra puffed before Varric could make a quip. In one hand was a book, the other a knife, and Varric was glad she gesturing with the book... a familiar-looking book, now that he looked at it. "You have some explaining to do."

"Yeah, you might want to take that up with the publisher. I complained about the cover image, too, but ..." Varric shrugged, as casually as he could manage, and eased down a few inches in the water. If all else failed maybe he could use the edge of the tub or the decorative stone elves in the middle of it as a shield. Sadly, there was no shield but his hand for his pantsless appendages.

"This... Tale of the Champion. This is supposed to be a history of the fall of Kirkwall?" Cassandra demanded, towering over where Varric lay in the burbling, warm water.

"I don't know if I'd call it a history. More of a historical fiction, maybe. Sort of. It's definitely inspired by real people and real events, and large parts of it are even true. I know. I was there. The rest of it..." Varric shrugged. "The best I could do with rumour and second-hand accounts. And the politics of the time. Did you know Knight-Commander Meredith tried to have independent publishing abolished in this city? At one point, she even went after the Gazette! It was a dangerous time to be a writer, in Kirkwall, but I endured, to produce that volume you're waving threateningly at my nether regions."

Cassandra's face reddened, but she pursed her lips through it. "Careful, dwarf. I could be waving something else."

Varric glanced at the knife in her other hand and conceded the point. "So, did you finish it? Is that why you're shouting? Not everyone liked the ending, but I had to be true to the narrative. If, on the other hand, you're here because you're demanding a sequel, I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint. My _Hard in Hightown_ series is pretty popular, though, if you want to give it a look."

"I'm not here for a discussion of literature!" Cassandra huffed, taking to pacing at the edge of the hot tub. She was one, giant coil of tension, and Varric would recommend a tub for her too if he didn't think it would end with a knife in his unmentionables. "I'm here to find the truth, and I am sure there must be parts of it in this pack of lies."

The elves who had followed Cassandra still skirted the niche, waiting for a word from Varric. He reassured them with a smile and wink.

"Well, that is the wrapping most historical fiction comes in," Varric replied.

"It is utterly unbelievable," Cassandra declared. "You expect me to believe a refugee healer burned a magister to death? And that there was no uproar?"

"Well, that was a Hawke wedding, and you know how those get. But, you're standing in front of Magister Danarius's former slaves, now free citizens of Kirkwall, so that might not be the story I'd pick to dispute."  Varric smiled impolitely and offered a casual shrug. He crossed his legs, hoping that if he got stabbed in the thigh, it would be less terrible.

"That is not the magister I was talking about, and you know it!" Cassandra blustered, still waving the book. "Corypheus? You expect me to believe that happened? That there was any such thing?"

"Okay, that one I might not have believed, if I wasn't there. But, I was. One moment he starts screaming, and the next, this ancient so-and-so from Tevinter is melting like a candle in a bonfire." Varric shook his head and shifted uncomfortably, trying to find the best position for his legs, in light of the company. "But, the rest of that trip was shit. Start to finish. I knew Gerav. I liked Gerav. I had to kill Gerav. It was that kind of holiday -- and that said, don't go on holidays with Hawkes."

"Speaking of holidays with Hawkes, I might not have believed the events at Château Haine, but your version of events does seem to hold water, compared to accounts from others who were there, that day," Cassandra conceded, her grip on neither the book nor the knife loosening.

"That big red dazzly thing Sl--" Varric cleared his throat. "Nervy Hawke wears around his neck is the necklace they thought they were supposed to steal. In case you needed further confirmation. And he didn't steal it, either. It was a gift."

"A gift. I'm sure."

"It was! I can't verify that the person who got it in the first place didn't steal it, but I don't think the duke is alive enough to care. For Artie? It was a gift from his husband, back before he was husband. And, really, that was a relief to all of us at that point, after all the sad pining on both sides."

"Pining," Cassandra drawled, but there was something less hostile in the set of her shoulders. "And they were really like that, were they? That particular Hawke and the elf?"

Varric nodded, his smile a bit pinched. "You don't know the half of it, Seeker. I just glossed over the important bits in the book. But yeah, Nervy's had it bad for Fenris since the first time the elf almost killed him." The water sloshed as Varric gestured, pausing to smooth his hair back from his face. "There's something seriously wrong with that Hawke." He paused to consider the other Hawkes. "Well. There's something differently wrong with that Hawke."

"Then what's wrong with the rest of them?" Cassandra asked, eyeing the elves still pressed to the hedge walls behind her.

"Swordy stabs things before he has a chance to consider them; Stabby... well, Stabby's viscount, now. No sense talking too much about him -- you must know, by now. And Shouty, well, Shouty just can't turn it off. He'd flirt with a post, if you painted lips on it, and you'd have to hear about it all night long." Varric shuddered, and the water slapped against the stone of the tub.

"And their sister?"

"Is the Princess-Consort of Starkhaven, and got there by being entirely terrifying. You know the first time she met Prince Sebastian, she was still living in Lowtown and had a grand total of one outfit to her name? She's the one who helped him, not the other way around."

"Perhaps she is truly the one I want." Cassandra looked contemplative. A real leader would be an excellent addition -- an excellent Inquisitor.

"Good luck extracting her from Starkhaven. The advisors would have your head for trying." Varric chuckled and leaned his elbow on the side of the bath. "Is that all, then? Just wanted my opinion on the Hawkes? A lot of trouble for nothing. You could've sent a letter, for that. But, then I don't suppose you'd have gotten to enjoy the view." Varric paused and Cassandra's eyes widened, grip on the knife tightening. "No? I thought we did a lovely job with the garden."

"Tell me about the eldest Hawke." Cassandra's eyes blazed as she slammed the book down on the edge of the tub and rammed the knife into it, leaning threateningly over Varric.

Varric had been threatened at knife point too many times to be rattled, even if there were usually clothes between him and the knife. "That would be Shouty," he sighed, "and I've already told you more than anyone needs to know about him."

"You know that's not what I mean," Cassandra protested. It was almost fun, watching her bristle. "Tell me about the Arishok, then. Did the viscount really kill him like your book says, with a knife to the throat?"

"Of course not," Varric huffed, waving one hand dismissively. He leaned away from the knife, making it look like he was just leaning back against the edge of the tub. "But, you know, historical fiction. There are some facts you have to tweak."

"How did he die, then?" Cassandra attempted to gesture with the knife, but lifted the book along with it. She glanced down, confused, regretted the view, and then pinned the book with her knee, pulling out the knife to flick water into Varric's face with the blade. Perhaps it would distract him from her wandering eyes, even if her concern had been the knife and not his... dwarven dagger.

"Well, he picked a fight with the Hawkes. Something something angry mages. You know, I was there and I'm still not entirely sure what happened. Shouty was glowing, which was not normal at all. Nervy was bleeding -- also not normal. Bleeding quite a lot. That whole part's true. Swordy got his nose broken, which was probably the most normal thing going, next to Stabby being nearly invisible, and I don't think anyone actually saw Princess through the whole thing, but it didn't mean she wasn't right there and ... actually failing to terrify the Arishok, which doesn't say much for the old bull's wits."

"If no one saw Lady Bethany, then how is he stupid for not being terrified by her?" Cassandra asked, keeping her eyes studiously above the waterline.

"Did you actually read my book?" Varric stopped and gaped in confusion, before he went on. "Anyway, it was all Shouty's fault, I'm pretty sure, but you can't say that when the Knight-Commander with a vendetta against your family and your printing press is standing outside the door waiting to arrest somebody. I don't think even killing the Arishok would've kept him out of trouble, at that point, so we just let Stabby take the credit. It was politically apt, or something. Not really my decision, or even Shouty's. Bethany's."

Cassandra hummed. A shrewd decision, she would admit. She was starting to wish that Bethany was available. But, it seemed that it was the Hawkes as a unit that was the most terrifying. Too bad they were scattered, now.

"And where is Shout-- er, Cormac, now?"

But Varric shook his head. "I'm telling you, Seeker. He's not what you need, and you're not going to find him in any amount of time for him to be useful to you."

"And whose fault is that?" Cassandra asked, eyed narrowing.

"Not mine, despite that look you're giving me. Look, you say you're looking for a leader, and no one Hawke is going to give you that on his or her own. Well. Maybe on her own, if you consider Bethany, but, like I said, she's not available. I know I make them all so compelling in my book, but you're going to need to look somewhere other than the Hawkes."

"And where would you suggest? As you say, I do not have the time to be traipsing across the continent in search of fictional heroes."

The knife remained levelled at parts of Varric he much preferred to keep intact, which accounted for every part of his body, really, and several pieces of clothing he wasn't presently wearing.

"I've heard good things about Lady Cousland, but she's used to being in charge in ways I don't know if you're ready to deal with. I'd be hesitant to pull anyone out of Ferelden this close to the end of the Blight, anyway. If you take an Orlesian, someone's going to shit bricks. A lot of people are going to shit bricks. The Inquisition can't become another stealth arm of the Valmonts' power, if you expect to do any good. I'd say you could try a dwarf, but you're either going to get the Carta or somebody who won't come topside or care about it." Varric shook his head, leaning to the side as if he meant to crack his neck, and sliding out of the way of the knife, again. "I could give you a Dalesman -- no, his wife. Kalli. But, you'd have to deal with the fact that her answer to everything is pretty much gut it and eat it, and she doesn't like humans. His answer is to get drunk and sing a song about it. The rest of the clan's even worse." He pushed his damp hair back, again. "You want my personal opinion, you want a good Rivaini thief. A guildmaster. But, good luck with that. I heard your Conclave's coming up in the winter. You'd need years, and I don't think you could do it. Stabby, maybe, but not you."

"You don't think very much of me, do you?"

"I think a lot more of any guildmaster's skills at not being found than your skills at infiltrating far enough to get near one." It was an honest answer, at least.

"I see," Cassandra said in that stiff way of hers. Blunt honesty, at least, didn't earn Varric's junk another threatening point of a dagger. "I think you and I disagree on what, exactly, the Inquisition needs, but either way, I can see that I am wasting my time here in Kirkwall."

"For what it's worth, Seeker, I do wish I could help. This Inquisition of yours could use someone who doesn't have their head up their ass."

Cassandra's glare had lost much of its heat. Lips thin, she considered the abused book, turning it over in her hands. "On that, we agree."

Varric poised himself for a dismissal, waiting for Cassandra to turn on her heel so he could climb out of this tub and into his clothes, but then she pinned him with a look that said she wasn't done.

"I just have one more question," she said. Avoiding eye-contact, she cleared her throat and opened the stabbed book to the inside cover. "Might I have your autograph?"


	119. Chapter 119

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran has some concerns about his son, in light of the war starting in Orlais. Jenet proceeds to reinforce some of his other concerns.

"Viscount?"

Anton looked up to find Bran lingering in the doorway of his office, looking a bit more uneasy than usual, which was saying quite a lot. Bran never looked uneasy.

"Don't tell me." Anton set down his pen and raised his hands. "Orlesian invasion in the harbour? Too late to raise the chains?"

Bran shook his head, managing something like a smile, though it looked more like a grimace. "I need to take a few days to go to Starkhaven. I wouldn't ask, but it's my son..."

"What, has he convinced my cousin to marry him? I'll send a gift with you." Anton looked amused, but somehow he was sure he was still missing the point.

"No, it's... It's the war. There's a new circle in Starkhaven." Bran's eyes hardened. "If we can't hold off a March, and maybe even if we can, Starkhaven's going to become a target. I don't want Jenet in the way."

"You know he's a grown man, right?" Anton reminded him. "He's older than _I_ am, and I'm the Viscount of Kirkwall."

"He's still my son, and there's no reason for him to be in the way. Summer's coming, and a nice holiday in Antiva would do him well." Bran's hands clenched into fists. "You must understand that I'm not here for your permission. I'm simply here to ask you not to inadvertently burn down the city in my absence. Do not do _anything_ without running it by Cullen and Aveline, first. I'll be back as soon as I can. I can't imagine I'll be much more than a week, and that's if he's going to be stubborn about it."

"I wouldn't presume to give you permission," Anton assured him, picking up his pen, again. "Give Jenet my best. I'll be happy to send my best ambassador elsewhere, but he'll have to request it, himself. I lived with my mother long enough that I'm not pulling those strings because _you've_ asked me."

"'He's got a spine', they said, when you were elected. If your spine gets my son killed--"

"It won't be my spine, it'll be his." Anton pointed his pen at Bran. "You know that. If he won't listen to you, it's not going to matter what I do."

* * *

Jenet knelt on the floor before his desk, with Charade's legs hooked over his shoulders, her trousers caught on the back of his neck as he pressed his face between her thighs. Her fingers kneaded his hair, clutching and tugging, pulling his head closer as she shifted and tipped her hips up, knocking over a cup of sealing-wax rods that rolled off the desk and scattered across the floor. Jenet made a muffled sound of amusement, his tongue still quite occupied.

Charade barely spared them a glance. "Sorry about that," she said in a breathless way that said she wasn't all that sorry at all. Jenet hummed in acknowledgement, shifting his grip on her thighs to change the angle. If she hadn't already knocked over the sealing-wax rods, she certainly would have then, the way she squirmed, a breathy sound of surprise catching in her throat. "Oh, Jenet!"

Jenet loved the way his name sounded like that, in her voice turned ragged.

" _Jenet_?"

Jenet froze, certain for one absurd moment that Charade's voice had sounded like his father's. Silly of him, and potentially concerning that his father came to mind in a moment like this.

Charade sat up, suddenly, her legs tightening across Jenet's back. "Lord Cavin! I'd say this isn't what it looks like, but... it is." She shrugged as best she could, without losing her balance.

Jenet made a muffled sound of terror and attempted to extract himself from the legs and cloth around his neck.

"Lord Cavin is some posturing prick from Ansburg, whereas I was born in Rivain," Bran retorted, turning around, even as he continued to stand in the doorway. "But, I see the family resemblance holds, if you know me so quickly, though your appreciation for my son's face no doubt assists in that."

Jenet finally managed to duck under the trousers and one of Charade's legs. " _Dad?_ " he asked, horrorstruck. "What are you doing here? How did you get in?"

"Lord Howe unlocked the door, so I could wait for you," Bran answered the second question, first, finally understanding the curious smile Lord Howe had struggled to keep off his face.

"I am going to put deathroot in his pudding," Jenet muttered, trying to wipe his face off without using his sleeve, as Charade shimmied back into her trousers, behind him. "Remind me of that, the next time I'm anywhere near Nathaniel's food, would you, dear?"

"Remind you? I might beat you to it, sweetie." Charade smiled serenely as she straightened her clothes. "But I will be sure to let you know so you can watch."

"At least wait until I've left the room before you start plotting murder, please," Bran sighed, rubbing at a knot of tension in his forehead. "Or before you do... other things," he added under his breath.

Jenet was sure his face was as red as his hair, which was still mussed from Charade's fingers. "Not that it isn't nice to see you, dad," he said, wondering what the protocol was, once your father had walked in on you and your girlfriend. Did he offer him a seat? A strong drink? An escape through the nearest window? "But I wasn't expecting to see you, not in Starkhaven. Does the viscount have business here?" Business that Jenet had not been informed of?

"The viscount is too busy with his nose in everyone else's business to worry about his own," Bran replied, eyeing his son with a look of profound disapproval that Jenet had become familiar with in his teenage years.

"Then what are you doing here?" Jenet held his ground, as best he could, from the floor.

"Can it not be that I simply wanted to see you? I was concerned for your well-being, which I was right to be if this is what Anton's paying you for."

"Will you just come in and shut the blighted door, before someone hears you?" Jenet huffed, finally shoving himself to his feet, in irritation, and running a hand through his already tousled hair.

"I'll have you know I don't need my cousin to buy whores for me," Charade shot back, parking her clothed posterior firmly on the draft of a treaty that had been going back and forth for months. "I can afford my own."

"No one is paying me for that!" Jenet finally sputtered. "Not even Lady Cousland! Though, Maker, I don't think that woman pays for anything."

"She is no Lady Cousland," Bran said with a sharp look in Charade's direction.

Charade straightened from her perch, eyes narrowing. Bran supposed that it was fortunate for her that her looks did not take after her father's. "No, I'm not, but I am an Amell."

"And the granddaughter of Lord Aristide," Jenet cut in, before she could continue with something more scathing. "We've had this discussion already, dad."

Charade's eyes narrowed on Jenet. "Discussion?"

"That's not why you're here, is it?" Jenet asked his father, folding his arms across his chest and staring him down. "Tell me you have better things to do than lecture me again about my choice of company."

"My concerns are far more immediate, if no less personal. I want you to leave Starkhaven, but don't come back to Kirkwall." Bran's face was as still as it was when he addressed the viscount's petitioners.

"Are you disowning me?" Jenet demanded, as Bran opened his mouth again.

"What?" Finally a crack in that impenetrable façade. "How did you wind up ambassador, jumping to conclusions like that? No!" Bran opened and closed his hand, making an abortive gesture toward his son. "I want you out of the way of the war. The templars have parted ways with the Chantry, as I'm sure you've heard, and there is talk of them becoming mage-hunters. Kirkwall is the only thing that stands between them and Starkhaven. Starkhaven, with its brand new tower and permissive views on magic. Please, Jenet. Take a holiday in Antiva. Take whoever you like along. Ask Anton to move you somewhere else, until this is over. He's already said he'll accept your request for a transfer."

"And you, Seneschal?" Jenet's eyes were calculating as he sized up his father. "Are you staying in Kirkwall?"

Bran's pause was answer enough. "I have a duty to the viscount," he said, the more diplomatic alternative to what he had been thinking: that the city would end up on fire again if left alone in Anton's hands for too long. 

"As do I," Jenet countered, as Bran knew he would. "I am still ambassador. If a war that big is really coming, then you know our jobs will be that much more important."

Bran drew in a heavy breath, cursing his son for his stubbornness, cursing Anton for not ordering him to leave. "There are other men who could do your job," he said bluntly.

"Well, they're not going to. I understand your concern, dad, but we both know I'm not going anywhere."

From her perch on the desk, Charade watched the two of them, noting the matching looks of stubbornness. "The Maker made two of them," she breathed.

Jenet's eyes found her, first, outraged and astonished. "That's my _dad_!"

Bran caught on a moment later, his unprepared face registering momentary revulsion, before he got it under control. "And you're Gamlen's daughter, whoever your grandfather might have been!"

"Whoa, hey, the two of you have some issues." Charade held up her hands defensively. "Sorry, Messere Jenet's Dad, but you've got more years on you than Nathaniel, and that's not my style. I just meant you're even more obviously related when you're pissed off. There's got to be a mirror around here." She glanced around the room. "And if there is, why haven't we been using it?"

Jenet turned an alarming shade of scarlet. "There is not a mirror in my office, and can you please not talk about what uses you might like to put it to, in front of our present company?"

"Your present company is already well aware of those uses, for which you can thank your mother," Bran retorted, before bringing the conversation back around. "And on the subject of the uses to which you have been putting my son and his furniture, as you may have noticed, I do not approve. You threaten to tarnish the name I have spent my life building up into genuine decency, by your very heritage, nevermind your ... I hesitate to call it a profession, though the viscount assures me that is the word."

"Really? You're going to lecture her about _her_ heritage?" Again Jenet stepped to Charade's defense, and she let him. "That's laughable, and you know it. And, honestly, I am surprised you do not yet see the benefits of such a match. Our family has standing now, but only just, while hers has a legacy. Charade is the last unmarried heir to Lord Aristide." Bran opened his mouth to argue, but Jenet forestalled him with a raised hand. "Yes, I know Gamlen is her father, but he, at least, is not a mage, which is more than I could say for the viscount's father. And, like him or not, she is a close relation to the viscount. I fail to see how such a match would do anything other than uplift our family name."

"Uplift it? _Uplift_ it? You are my only son, and presuming that you are correct about the weight of the Amell name, you would not be uplifting our family. You would be _erasing_ it. Any heirs to this increase in status would bear the _Amell_ name!" Bran argued, colour splashed across his cheeks. "And I wouldn't want you dating the viscount, either! Have you _met_ Anton? You certainly deserve better than that!"

"You have a terribly low opinion of my willingness to allow your family name to persist," Charade remarked, hooking a leg around Jenet's waist and drawing him back. "Assuming I had any intention of marrying your terribly handsome son -- and was that a proposal, Jenet? That sounded like it might be the most awkward and poorly timed confession of intent I've ever imagined. But, If I had any such intention, I'd only hold the daughters for the Amell name. There's no sense in wasting a name that promises such pretty faces, even if you are making ugly faces at me about it!"

Jenet's 'pretty' face turned interesting colours as it occurred to him how that must have sounded. He certainly wasn't averse to the thought of potentially marrying Charade. Maybe. One day. "Well, I don't know about a proposal," Jenet said, fumbling over the words, "but... I like to hope that, maybe, someday it could be an option." He turned to look back at her with far too much hope in his eyes.

Charade pulled him in, eyes sparkling as she pressed a kiss to his lips.

Bran made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat, reaching up to rub his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. Of course. He walks in to lecture his son on his choice of company and, rather than dissuading him, is left with his son _proposing_ to said company.

"Later," Charade said, with a wink. "Business, first."

Jenet scoffed. "Business? We'll die unmarried, like Nathaniel."

"He's not dead, yet!" Charade protested. "Anyway, holiday in Antiva?"

Bran held his breath. Even after that, she'd taken up his torch.

"Of course not. We have work to do." Jenet smiled slyly. "I've got some nice information in Tantervale that your friends might be interested in. Of course, you'd be doing me, and by extension Sebastian, a favour, if you use it, so..." He shrugged, before he turned a wry look on his father. "It's a mutually-profitable business relationship."

"But, I walked in on--"

"Part of the profit!" Charade grinned. "And mmm, he does have some nice profit."

The pinched look around Bran's eyes said he did not appreciate the comment. He shook his head at the two of them, knowing when to make a tactical retreat. "I must give my regards to the prince." He fixed Jenet with a look. "But we are not finished."

"We weren't finished, either," Charade said into Jenet's ear, and Bran, wisely, pretended not to hear.


	120. Chapter 120

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Aveline are still having their 'captains' lunch', even with Cullen now a commander.

Aveline looked up from a seemingly insurmountable pile of paperwork, to find Cullen standing in the door of her office, a pair of gourd bowls in a straw basket in one of his hands. She inhaled sharply. "Maker's breath! What day is it?" As if she hadn't been writing it all morning, already.

"Sneaks up on you, doesn't it?" Cullen chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. "I was surprised I got all the way here without anyone telling me you were out picking fights with the Coterie or something."

"Coterie can barely keep its head above water, these days." Aveline shook her head and dragged a pile of reports off her desk to make room. "Now, it's mages who've never been free a day in their lives getting rowdy with the locals. Thankfully, our mages tend to put a stop to most of it, before it gets too far out of hand, but I can't _hire_ the mages without causing trouble. For all that's changed, some things are just as they always were. Elves. I can hire elves, and they're doing a great job in the Alienage. The complaints from that quarter have never been so low. How's your appeal to the Divine going?"

Cullen snorted loudly, as he dragged over a chair and moved the colour-tabbed pile of papers off of it. "Didn't you hear? It doesn't matter what the Divine thinks. The Lord Seeker's annulled the Nevarran Accord, which was the root of my argument, I might add, and decided that obliterating the presence of magic in Thedas is the purpose of the Templar Order. I'm not taking his advice, of course. I'm sure that'll get his attention eventually, but he's gone after the refugees from the White Spire -- you know, the remains of the College of Enchanters -- first."

Aveline stopped, her hand on a bowl not yet lifted. "Was that the public announcement I didn't go to, because I was busy convincing one of the Deshyrs that he could not, in fact, just walk up and stab a man in a gaming house, even if he was Carta?"

Cullen laughed. "Probably. How did that go over?"

"Oh, you know, he threw the knife at your husband and stormed off." Aveline rolled her eyes. "Is this the honey vinegar sauce?" she asked as the smell from the bowl reached her.

"Of course it is. You don't think I know what you like on your noodles, by now?"

She shot him a droll look over her bowl. "I think it's a good thing your husband isn't here, or he would have had an inappropriate joke for that."

Cullen's lips twitched with mischief. "I could try my hand at one, if you like."

"Please, no," Aveline insisted around her first mouthful. "You're supposed to be the sane one."

Cullen laughed, the chair creaking as he shifted his weight, stretching out his legs. Even as they joked, Aveline went over what Cullen had said.

"I can't imagine the Divine is just sitting back and twiddling her thumbs," Aveline said as she stirred the noodles in her bowl. Which was a lie, really. She'd seen enough incompetence from leadership that she could imagine that rather easily. "What's her reaction? Anything useful, or are we going to need to rely on Anton using the key to the nets in a _responsible_ fashion?"

"She's calling a Conclave to play referee," Cullen answered. "Maker knows how that will turn out, but at the very least it will buy us all some time." He slurped up a noodle more noisily than he meant to, and he mumbled an apology, cheeks turning pink. "But, uh. You said something about mages causing trouble in the streets? How much trouble?" He really hoped no one else had decided to swing from the Rose's chandelier.

"Oh, nothing too terrible. They just haven't all figured out how to act like people, yet. You tell them how things work, and they're suspicious until they see another mage do it. Unfortunately, 'suspicious' has included some really untimely lightning strikes and barriers. If you've got a few men I could borrow, we could really use them, just for the sake of safety. Angry drunkards is bad enough. Angry drunk mages is above the pay grade for any guard, even with Anton's raises." Aveline shook her head. "Is it really so bad? The things I've heard them yelling about, I mean, I thought it was mostly just Anders, and Anders... is Anders. He probably had half of it coming."

Cullen sighed. "Probably. On both counts. I can probably spare you a few people, and it probably is that bad." He speared a bit of unidentifiable vegetable, decided he didn't want to know what it was, and stuck it in his mouth. Good. It was good. "Anders was in what's widely considered one of the most frivolous and lenient Circles in southern Thedas. I was there, too, and ... yes. He walked into a lot of that, and with his eyes open every time, but what happened to him... he says he kept it from happening to anyone else, by just being in the way, all the time. And I'd believe it. What went on here, with Meredith... It was so easy for most of us to accept because it wasn't abnormal. Harsh, yes, but not so much more harsh that it seemed unreasonable, not for a long time."

"How does this even happen? And, obviously, mages can be people like any other -- your mages settled out pretty quickly -- but what...? How did we get to a place where even I have to remind myself that people with magic are still people? And I'd never have questioned that they weren't really, if it wasn't for Bethany and Merrill. Bethany's brothers..." Aveline rolled her eyes. "I still have difficulty remembering that even Carver and Anton can't just be muzzled and kept outside, some days, and they don't even have the excuse of magic."

"Please do not muzzle my husband. The people at the Gazette will get ideas, and I'll have to deal with the aftermath." 

Aveline arched an eyebrow. "Implying that I'm free to muzzle Carver?"

"Depending on the day, I might help you with Carver." Aveline directed an amused snort at her bowl. "But... I don't know. I imagine it's fear, really. Fear of what mages could do or become. Tevinter hangs over us like a warning sign, and..." Cullen swallowed, took another hefty bite to justify his pause. As he chewed his noodles, he also chewed over what had happened in Kinloch Hold, with Uldred and the other blood mages. "That fear is not without cause," he continued. "A mage is a force of nature, and sometimes it's easy to forget that force of nature is wrapped up in a person. And when mages are isolated, kept away from the public, it's easier still to forget. It's easier to humanize a person than an idea of a person."

Cullen frowned into his bowl. He hated that, once, there was a version of him who would have disagreed.

Aveline leaned back in her chair, bowl in one hand, shoving her free hand through her short hair. "It's like the elves. But, it's easier to see with the elves. Everyone knows elves. They're everywhere. They're not some theoretical threat, locked away for everyone's safety, they're the people who do your washing and look after your children. And how far do you have to be not to see that whether or not they're citizens, they still have to eat and sleep and care for their children like anyone else? They're pointy-eared people who might not be totally sold on the idea of Andraste, and they're definitely not coming around on that point, if you teach them that people who like Andraste don't think they deserve warm clothes and a place to live." She took a bite of drippy noodles and pointed the fork at Cullen, while she chewed. "And I'm really liking the Alienage community. Even the new ones, from Orlais. They're polite. They don't make a lot of trouble. It's mostly the occasional theft and some drunken brawls. You get drunken brawls anywhere there's drink."

"The elves have been fairly friendly to us, as well, once Merrill explained that we were just there to check for demons and keep everyone safe. Carver's still pretty popular, which helps, and as much as I hate to admit it, that loudmouthed Dalish storyteller, what's his name?" Cullen glanced up at Aveline, expectantly.

"Theron, who is absolutely the worst, when he's drunk. At least his wife and Fenris can usually keep him out of my hair."

"Theron's helped, too. He makes these terrible songs about Carver and Merrill fighting demons in the Undercity and teaches them to anyone who will listen. I have elves I've never met who come up and ask me if Ser Carver can come tell them the story of the toilet demons again, so they can see if Theron's version is true."

Aveline's sigh was long-suffering, but Cullen could tell from the way she was pursing her lips that she was trying not to chuckle at that. "Toilet demons. This city really is a... _treasure_ , isn't it?"

"It is," Cullen agreed. "But don't say that word too loud or you might accidentally summon a pirate acquaintance of ours."

Aveline grumbled something less than flattering around her noodles.


	121. Chapter 121

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feynriel and Ella take a look at Merrill's eluvian.

"I'm afraid it's not very pretty. I just don't have Master Ilen's skill..." Merrill wrung her hands again before reaching for the sheet that covered the eluvian. "This is just a small piece of the one that used to be near one of our camps in eastern Ferelden. Theron's the one that found it, but he doesn't like to talk about it. I don't like to talk about it. That was ... not the best day for us. But, I knew what it was, when I saw it! And I've almost got it working again! It just... sometimes it finds everything, but it never slows down. Sometimes it doesn't find anything. But, there's never anyone's face in it. No one's looking back."

Feynriel stepped closer, as the sheet slid off the eluvian. He'd seen them in Tevinter, but they didn't work at all. Artefacts of the Imperial age, his teachers had told him. The frame was like nothing he'd seen -- wood and bone and slivers of lyrium carefully shaped and slotted together. "What did it look like before? Did you see it, when Theron found it?"

Merrill shook her head. "I didn't see it until days later. It was already broken. But, the original frame had humans on it! These two big, big statues of men in robes holding a gigantic mirror between them." She gestured, trying to convey the size, and nearly hit Carver in the nose.

"Sounds like Tevinter vanity," Carver said, taking a pointed step back.

From her perch on the edge of Merrill's bed, Ella bit back a smile, far enough away not to be in danger of flailing limbs.

"The Tevinters have quite a bit of that," Feynriel said with a sheepish smile. "Vanity, that is." He turned back to stare at the mirror, one hand out as though to touch but not quite daring to land. "They've seen some of these too, but I've never seen one work. And you say you've gotten it to move? That's incredible, Merrill."

Merrill stood straighter, trying not to preen. "Well, I had to figure it out. For the sake of Tamlen's memory." Her ears drooped a little. "Here, let me show you. Step back a bit."

Feynriel obliged, standing next to Carver as she murmured the key, and watched as the surface of the eluvian rippled and shimmered. Amazing. The magic wanted to obey her, but it had nothing else to latch onto.

"I've never seen anyone actually try to use one! What's that incantation you used, and where did you find it? This is incredible!" Feynriel's eyes lit up as he watched the surface of the mirror roil with clouds, but never settle on anything. "It looks... Well, it looks like clouds, but it reminds me of parts of the Fade. Could these have been some kind of channel through the Veil, do you think? All I know, which sadly isn't much, is that they used to be used by the magisters to talk to one another and send messages across the continent, instantly. And then, one day, they all went black and never worked again. Right about the start of the Blight, I think, when the Old Gods stopped responding to prayer. In Tevinter, they say that heralded the coming of Andraste, but it really doesn't make sense, because Andraste wasn't even born for what, another two centuries?"

Merrill looked to Carver, expectantly, and Carver groaned.

"I don't know. Ask my stupid brother and his twelve thousand books on the Maker and the Creators."

"Don't you read, Ser Carver?" Ella laughed and shook her head. "I think that's right. It's about two hundred years from the start of the First Blight to Andraste's rebellion."

"Thank you, Ella," Feynriel said, ignoring Carver's eye roll. He had to remind himself sometimes that this templar was related to the two mages who had brought him out of the Fade. There was some resemblance in the eyes, to be sure, but Feynriel didn't remember Artemis or Cormac as being anyway near as grouchy.

Merrill hummed. "I really doubt that Andraste has anything to do with it, but... you really think there's a connection to the Fade?" She turned to Feynriel, eyes wide and rapt, as the 'clouds' continued to swirl in the mirror behind her. "I mean, if there's magic, of course it has something to do with the Fade, but to use the Fade as a link between two eluvians is fascinating." She spoke just this side of too fast, wishing, not for the first time, that the mirror would land on _something_. "I wonder what happened."

"Magisters probably broke something with their meddling," Carver muttered. "Tripped over the Maker's rug, broke his favourite vase or something." For a moment, he almost huffed out _mages_! in a classic Fenris-y fashion, only to catch himself. Merrill would never let him live that down, he was sure.

Feynriel laughed, awkwardly. "That's pretty much how they tell it, you know. The Seven broke in and peed on the rug and got tossed back out, forever cursed for their indiscretions. Though, I wonder if the breaking in might not have broken something."

"It is called 'breaking in'," Merrill pointed out. "I'd expect it broke something."

"You mean when they tore open the Veil, it ruined the ... whatever the eluvians were using?" Ella's eyes widened at the thought. "But, wouldn't they have known that would happen? If they made the eluvians, they must have known how they worked!"

"They didn't make the eluvians," Merrill reminded her. "We made the eluvians. And now we don't know anything because Tevinter stole or destroyed all the books explaining how things worked!" Her frustration was obvious, as she gestured at the years of notes and sketches hung on the walls.

Feynriel shook his head in amazement at all her work. "I wish I had more to tell you," he said, thinking back to the grand libraries he'd seen in Tevinter and wishing he had spent more time in them. Or, rather, wishing he could have taken them with him. "There has to be more information in Tevinter, somewhere, but I did not search the whole of it."

"No? Then we should send you back." Despite his dry tone, Carver's smirk said he was joking. "Maybe pee on _their_ rugs this time."

"Don't go giving him ideas," Merrill chided. "And, really, if you want someone peeing on rugs, you should bring up the matter with Anton."

Ella's brows knit. "Because... Anton has a dog?"

"Sure," Carver sighed. "We'll go with that."

"Is this because he's Fereldan?" Feynriel asked, remembering the way people he'd known in Tevinter spoke of Fereldans. "Any of the Hawkes would do, in that case!"

"I'm not a dog, but my brother might be!" Carver threw his hands up in frustration. "We're not _all_ like him!"

"Someone should have taught him not to pee on golems," Merrill noted sagely. "Or demons. He pees on a lot of demons. Or he pees on things and then demons appear. I wonder if that would work even better, in Tevinter. This one time, we were in the Deep Roads--"

Carver groaned and covered his face.

"-- and Anton decided to pee on an altar dedicated to Dumat. How many demons was that, Carver? Four? Six? It was a lot of demons."

Feynriel choked on his next breath and snorted. "This is going to become an adventure novel, isn't it? 'The Viscount Who Peed Demons', by Varric Tethras -- I can see it now. You... you are joking about the demons, aren't you?"

"No," Carver sighed from beneath his hands.

"Well, now I've definitely got to take another look at those Tevinter inscriptions from the demon-toilets in the Undercity," Ella muttered, tapping her chin. "Is that the problem? Does a certain kind of pee just cause demons to manifest? If there was still a College of Enchanters, I'm sure I could write a paper in time for next year's conference."

"That's just what we need in the middle of a war," Carver said, voice muffled behind his hands, "an essay on toilet demons."

" _If_ there was still a College of Enchanters," Ella repeated huffily. She wished Carver hadn't brought up what was going on outside their city. In moments like this, it was simple enough to forget that there was a world outside, let alone one that was tearing itself apart. "And you have to admit it's fascinating!"

"You'll forgive me if I do not find pee or the demons it summons as fascinating as you do," Carver drawled.

"I'd hate to know what pooping on the wrong demons would do," Merrill said, mostly to herself. At Carver's pained look, she blinked and looked around. "Did I say that aloud? Oh well, it's a perfectly scholarly question!"

"Have you considered getting Anton to pee on the eluvian?" Feynriel asked, crouching down to study the bottom of the frame. "If it's connected to the Fade, and he can draw demons through the Veil by peeing on things, perhaps he'd be able to repair the connection by peeing on it." He shrugged and offered a lopsided smile, over his shoulder. "It looks like you've tried almost everything else."

"My brother is not going to be encouraged to pee on anything that isn't a chamberpot or a latrine trench!" Carver radiated exasperation. "This is not how magical research is performed!"

"Oh, what would you know, templar," Ella scoffed. "I think it's a great idea. Assuming he really does summon demons, and he's not just drawn to peeing on things that already have demons in them."

"I wonder if Artemis could tell." Merrill looked contemplatively at the eluvian. "I should ask him before he goes to Gwaren."

"I wonder if anyone would notice if I quietly moved to Treviso in the middle of the night and never spoke to them again." Carver sighed and buried his face in his hands again. Maybe he'd just leave them there, this time.


	122. Chapter 122

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathaniel tries to help Sebastian with his husbandly duties.

Sebastian was using a rare moment of leisure to catch up on his reading when Nathaniel stalked into his room as though there were a storm on his heels. Sebastian was about to ask him what was wrong, when it occurred to him that the man always looked like that, at least in his presence.

"Good morning, Nathaniel," he said instead. "The tea should still be warm. Shall I pour you a cup?"

Nathaniel looked like he might refuse, only to shrug and mumble, "Sure," as he dropped into the seat opposite Sebastian. He cradled a book in his lap, but as Sebastian had one in his, he thought little of it.

"I wanted to thank you, by the way," Sebastian said as he poured, topping off his own cooling cup once he had poured Nathaniel's. "I understand you have been... good company to my wife these past weeks."

"I have come to suggest you might want to be better company to your own wife, Sebastian. Not that I mind her company, but I expect we will both come to mind the talk, in time." Nathaniel wrung the edges of the book in his hands.

"Has someone noticed?" Sebastian's eyes widened.

"It's just a matter of time, and you know it." Nathaniel sighed and pushed his hair back over one shoulder. He'd have to cut it, soon, it was getting longer than he liked. "So, I've brought you a gift, and I hope it helps you like it once helped me." He set the book on the edge of the desk, but kept his hand on it, as Sebastian reached for it.

"A book?" Sebastian asked. "I'm already familiar with Orlesian romances, Nathaniel."

"It's not a romance. It's also not Orlesian. It's a copy of an Antivan picturebook that Elissa gave me when we were young."

"A picturebook?" Sebastian scoffed. "I think that's a bit low, even for you. You're not that much older than me, and if you are, what are you doing with my wife?"

"Not that kind of picturebook," Nathaniel snapped, releasing his hold on the book. "An illustrated guide to some things I'm led to believe Bethany might appreciate. I've put paper in some appropriate pages, none of them things I haven't done, which is more than you need to know, but I thought you might like the reassurance it's not going to kill you."

Nathaniel waited for the moment when Sebastian understood what he was saying, and then he watched the man blanch.

"You cannot be serious," Sebastian baulked, trying to hand the book back.

Nathaniel folded his arms across his chest. "I am serious. Just take a look at the damned thing."

Watching the pained look on Sebastian's face as he capitulated, Nathaniel finally reached for that tea and took a sip. Not quite as scalding as he would like, but tea was tea. Sebastian set the book in his lap as though afraid it might bite him and opened the book to a random page. Not one of the ones bookmarked, Nathaniel noted to his chagrin.

Sebastian's face went from white to green. "I was unaware that that was humanly possible." Yet he didn't tear his eyes away. Nathaniel would consider that a step in the right direction.

"Is that the one with the bar and the chains and the fist?" Nathaniel asked, between sips of tea. "I wasn't sure that was possible, either, but Elissa was quite eager to figure it out, after the fifth time she knocked me flat, that day. I was holding out for something a bit less acrobatic, but she was right. It's definitely possible. Not really what I'd suggest, starting out, though. Why don't you stick to the flagged pages, for now."

Sebastian squinted across his desk. "This is absurd. You expect me to believe Lady Cousland allowed herself to be chained--"

"I never said she was the one in chains," Nathaniel admitted, studying the bottom of his teacup as if it were the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen.

"But, you're the one with--"

"Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to, Sebastian. I was quite flexible in more than just the legs, when I was young. My good sense was quite bendy and resilient, and I had a beautiful young woman to make it all sound like a very good idea." Nathaniel smiled, reflectively, still staring into his tea. "And I'm not saying she was wrong, either. It just... took me a while to appreciate how right she was. Except for page forty-seven. I don't advise that at all."

The furrow between Sebastian's brows said he still didn't understand, but Nathaniel was more than content to leave it that way. "Start off on page four," he said. "That one is simple, intimate, and just different enough to catch Bethany's attention."

Cautiously, Sebastian obeyed, clearly relieved not to see chains or fists where they did not go. The green tinge to his face disappeared to be replaced with scarlet, and Nathaniel wondered how many colours the prince would turn before this conversation was over.

"That is... more reasonable than the last one, at least," Sebastian said in a small voice, and Nathaniel wondered if the shock of the previous page may have worked to his advantage.

"Simple enough that I am sure you do not need any notes," Nathaniel said, though Sebastian still looked spooked by the whole thing.

"It still seems dreadfully improper. And immodest," Sebastian protested, eyes still held by the entwined limbs on the page.

"It's your wife, Sebastian. What's improper is that you're not already doing these sorts of things. What's _more_ improper is that I'm doing them for you." Nathaniel rubbed his forehead. "I may have overheard that you have less difficulty considering this sort of thing after a few drinks, so I've taken the opportunity to have a bottle of Antivan brandy, to go with your new Antivan book, delivered to your suite. I strongly suggest having a few glasses and looking this book over, before Bethany returns for the night."

"Where is she, today, do you know?" Sebastian asked, a faint twinge of concern crossing his brow.

"She's with Jenet, the Guard Captain, and the First Enchanter. They're hammering out some facets of the law to be brought to you later in the week. With the templar rebellion, things have been a bit tense, with the mages." Nathaniel shrugged and sipped his tea. "Let the people who know what they're doing sort it out and bring it to you. Now is the time to trust that your wife has the city's best interests at heart."

"Oh, I'm sure she knows what she's doing. There's never been any question." Sebastian sighed and tapped the book. "Antivan brandy, you say? And you think it might help?"

"Do you want to sleep with your wife?" Nathaniel asked, eyeing Sebastian.

"Of course I do!"

"Your only trouble is the oaths you took as a Brother, before you were released from service to come back and be the prince? I mean, you're not secretly more interested in men? Or in no one at all?"

"I do not wish to break my oaths." Sebastian set his elbow on the edge of the desk and rested his head on his hand, the other hand still holding the book in his lap. "I know they no longer apply, but ... it's the last step away from that life."

"Then, yes. Antivan brandy will help." Nathaniel chuckled. "The morning after, you'll be wondering why you made such a fuss."

* * *

After a few drinks, far from elucidating the images in front of him, Sebastian found that the images took on an almost abstract quality. They still didn't make sense, but nothing seemed to make sense and, in the warm glow of whiskey, Sebastian found he did not mind. They would make sense to Bethany, Nathaniel had assured him. She would know what to do with the illustration on page twelve. Or page thirty-six, if he plucked up the courage for that.

It was thus that Bethany found her husband, drunk in the bed they theoretically shared and squinting down at a book with the utmost concentration. "Interesting reading, pumpkin?"

He jumped at the sound of her voice, fumbling the book. "That is... um..."

Bethany sat on the corner of her side of the bed and pulled the book over from where it had fallen open to some much-used page.

"Nathaniel thought it might help. And drinking." Sebastian struggled beneath the dual distractions of panicked embarrassment and drunkenness. "He thought drinking might help."

"It hasn't got to be quite this complicated," Bethany said, head cocked as she struggled to figure out what was even going on in the image on the page.

"He, er, suggested page four," Sebastian admitted, trying to convince himself to let his eyes linger on his wife -- difficult when he mostly wanted to lock himself in the cupboard for a week, after flipping through that book.

Bethany paged back through a variety of exciting positions and props. "Oh. I can definitely see the appeal." It was quite simple. The sort of thing that appeared in bland romances for those who didn't like their reading to get too spicy. But, if Sebastian would do it, they'd have something to work from. "And you? Do you think you'd like it?"

"I, uh..." Sebastian took a moment to wet his dry throat. He stared down at the image on the page, found it difficult to look away even, and tried to picture it in three dimensions, featuring Bethany and him instead of a couple of drawings. "As you say, there is an appeal." His wife was beautiful, stunning even. He just had a hard time putting himself into such a scene. "And I cannot know if I would like it until I have tried it. I should... like to try it."

"Are you sure?" Bethany's face lit in a slow smile, and she looked radiant like that, smiling at him.

"Not entirely," he admitted, "but I would like to share this with you." Haltingly, he reached out to take her hand. That, at least, was a part of her he knew well after years of tangled fingers and of moulding his palm to hers. He wondered if -- he _hoped_ that -- one day he would know the rest of her body just as well.

"That is so very sweet of you." Bethany reached up to brush Sebastian's hair back from where it had fallen in his face. His eyes were much too bright, and she knew it was the drink. "I might suggest that taking off your shirt and getting rid of this pillow might be a place to start, if that doesn't seem like too much all at once."

"My shirt?" Sebastian laughed, dismissively. "You've seen me without my shirt. You've even seen my thighs, and I really want to thank you again for that. I was quite nervous it might be something serious."

"Just an ingrown hair," Bethany replied, remembering the incident he meant. "And you scared the life out of Carver, which just made that twice as worth my time." She chuckled and pulled the bolster out from beneath the blankets, tossing it on the floor at the foot of the bed.

"I could have done without your brother's staring," Sebastian muttered, trying to untangle himself from his shirt, but finding the cloth far too confusing to his drunken perceptions. "I think I'm stuck. Are you sure this is a good idea?"

Biting back her laughter, Bethany scooted closer and reached up to help him. "Love, you have to undo the ties first. Here. Start over." She helped him flatten his shirt back out, eyes still shining with amusement as she loosened the laces he was likely too drunk to navigate. "There." This time the shirt didn't try to strangle Sebastian on its way off. "Much better."

Sebastian flinched in surprise at the feel of her fingers on his skin, a light touch to his bare chest. She stilled as though to pull her hand back, but Sebastian covered her hand with his, assuring her he had not changed his mind. Her light touch took on weight, and Sebastian swore the shape of her hand would be forever burned into his chest. For a moment, his fingers itched to pick up his drink again to silence the nerves in his stomach, but her stare kept him rooted.

"What next?" he asked.

"I think a few kisses might be called for, at this juncture." Bethany put on her very best negotiating face, but it lasted only a moment as she went right back to smiling.

"Kisses." Sebastian managed a smile. "I'm very good at kisses."

"Maybe you should practise a little more," Bethany suggested, tapping her lip and then laying her hand back on Sebastian's chest. "No one can ever be too good at kissing."

Sebastian leaned in, trying to keep his balance on the soft bed, as he pressed his lips to Bethany's. Yes, this was something they'd done, before, and something he'd always rather liked. He couldn't remember why he'd stopped after they were married. It seemed exceedingly foolish, now, as Bethany guided him through a kiss so vivid it seemed to reach his entire body. He could feel the pull of the Chantry's teachings, as Bethany's hands stroked his back, but Nathaniel was right. He'd been forced to leave that behind, and it was time to embark on the new path the Maker intended for him.

For a while, that was all they did, kiss and caress each other in ways that were familiar to him and that made his body hum with more than the booze. It was easy to lose himself even as he became more aware of Bethany and everywhere her warmth pressed against his. And then she was pressing closer, close enough for Sebastian to make out the shape of her body pressed against the length of his. That was almost too much, for a moment, but Sebastian clamped down on the guilt -- this was his _wife_ for Maker's sake! Guilt should not factor into it!

Bethany's hands roamed, turned the kiss into what it was: a promise of more. Still, Sebastian kept his hands where they were safest, at her waist, or tangled in her hair. He did so like the feel of her hair against his fingers.

"Enjoying yourself, pumpkin?" Bethany murmured against Sebastian's neck, tipping her chin up to nibble at his ear.

"I think so..." Sebastian murmured, pushing away the vows he'd abandoned when he took the throne. The rest were easy to keep, however quietly -- times for readings and for prayer, when to eat, how to sleep. But this one... this one he had to truly make a decision and step out of the life he'd lived. And he knew he needed to surrender his attachment to the celibate life, if he ever expected to bring heirs into the world.

That and his wife was the most beautiful woman in Thedas, and somewhere in him, he knew that without his time in the Chantry, he would already have taken this step and several more. "Yes. Yes, I am."

He felt her smile against his ear, felt her pleased huff of breath against the shell shiver down his spine. And that was not something he ever thought would be pleasurable, the simple tease of her teeth against his ear.

"Good," she purred. "Now relax." Bethany stroked one hand up Sebastian's arm, taking the hand that sat safely at her waist and guiding it lower, into uncharted waters.

Sebastian swallowed but didn't pull his hand away. He had heard legends of the Hawke ass, had even admired it from afar, but holding it in his hand was another matter. For a while, his hand just sat there limply, but an encouraging purr from Bethany reminded him that hands were meant to move and squeeze. 

Much as he tried to ignore it, Sebastian was becoming increasingly aware of an urgency in his pants. Wait, no, not his pants. Well, sort of. An urgency in his bladder, to be more specific, and it occurred to Sebastian that, maybe, he shouldn't have followed Nathaniel's instruction to 'drink' quite so well.

"Are you all right?" Bethany asked, after a moment. "That's not a very relaxed look."

"Perhaps I should have had less whiskey. Nathaniel did suggest brandy, though. Maybe I should have had brandy instead." Sebastian squirmed uncomfortably. "I need to, er, attend to that. And then I hope you will show me more of your wifely charms."

Bethany struggled to hold back a laugh. "I'll just read that book, while I wait. You're not too drunk to get to the bathroom, I trust?"

Sebastian licked the roof of his mouth and considered that, as he sat up, slowly and turned toward the edge of the bed. "It isn't that far. What kind of prince would I be, if I couldn't walk to the bathroom?"

As Bethany looked on, ready to leap to his aid, if necessary, Sebastian heaved himself to his feet and tottered off drunkenly, in the direction of the bathing chamber, which also held an Orlesian interpretation of a Tevinter-style toilet, complete with a lid and seat, and far beyond what he'd become accustomed to in Kirkwall. Sitting down to pee, he'd discovered, was a decadent experience.

Bethany paged through Nathaniel's book, one ear out for any unusual sounds from the bathroom. For several pages, nothing unexpected happened, but somewhere around the eighteenth page, there came a sudden series of thumps and a sound of falling cloth and clattering metal. "Blight it, Sebastian," Bethany muttered to herself, getting off the bed. "Do you need a hand, pumpkin?"

There was no answer.

Bethany raised her eyes to the heavens, silently imploring the Maker to tell her what she had done to deserve this. He didn't answer her either. 

"Sebastian?" she called out again as she opened the door. She found him on the floor in a tangle of curtain. At least he had made it to the toilet before he fell. "Come on, pumpkin, wake up!" Bethany padded over to him and nudged him with her toe in the vain hope that he was lightly asleep and not passed out. "You are not going to leave your poor wife in this state, are you? You are."

Looking around her, Bethany considered the man on the floor and the distance to the bed. "Why does my brother have to be the force mage in the family?" she grumbled as she grabbed a handful of curtain.


	123. Chapter 123

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samson starts considering the difference red lyrium makes. A visitor solves a problem, before it can get out of hand. Meanwhile, two lovers share tea, in Orlais.

The vials of lyrium gleamed red in the afternoon light, streaming down over the wall of the keep. Samson counted them again, counted each box as he handed them out to the men -- his men. Imshael's friend hadn't just needed a warrior, he'd needed a leader, and somehow Samson found himself shoved into the role, commanded to take charge and care for these fallen templars, who had nowhere to turn now that the accord was broken.

And he wondered, looking at all the young faces smiling at him, who would be the next to go. He'd watched Meredith turn, but that had taken years. Even his own body seemed to be resisting the ... redness of the lyrium, for lack of a better word. What had happened to her had never been seen before with regular lyrium -- it was just this red kind that changed a person. And some of them, he'd seen, changed much, much faster, and he wondered if they would have fared even this well with the Chantry lyrium. Were these the men who went mad in their twenties? He'd never know, he suspected. There would be no more templars. There would be no way to tell.

"You feeling all right, there, Alfric?" he asked a man of almost his own age, a man who'd put in more years with the Order than he'd gotten the opportunity to take. "You're looking a little gritty."

"You don't exactly look like a powdered princess, either, ser," said Alfric with a smile that was just as weathered and grimacing as the rest of him.

Samson shrugged. He knew what he looked like, and it was a right sight better than he had looked a month ago. "They don't pay me to be pretty." He gave Alfric a look that said he hadn't answered the question.

But Alfric's answer was cut off by the sound of breaking glass, and Samson looked up to see the spill of red pooling between the stones, to see the shaking claw of a hand that had dropped it. The hand belonged to one of the younger recruits, a young blond man who had reminded Samson of a skinnier version of Keran.

"Shit," Alfric breathed, more resigned than horrified as he watched the young man's body twist, his screams of pain choked but no less bone-chilling.

Samson's hand grabbed at his sword and then released it, as he raced toward the young man, watching the red crystals push out of his skin, as they had with Meredith. Maybe there was still hope. He didn't want to have to kill the kid -- and he was just a kid. Samson was probably of an age to be his father.

The crystals kept growing, the change sudden and terrifying, and even more terrifying, the young man's blood never reached the ground, being drawn into the growths bursting from his flesh. The attempts to scream had faded into a high-pitched whine, as Samson crouched down beside the young man. What was his name? "Nicolai, can you still hear me? We'll help you. Stay calm, boy. We're not going to leave you."

Alfric hovered uselessly nearby, and the younger -- well, newer -- members of the Elder One's army fled in terror, crowding into the corners as far from the thing Nicolai was becoming as they could get. Some of them, though, had seen it before, and they nervously clutched at their swords.

"Alfric, I need a ..." Samson looked utterly vacant, for a moment. Needed a what? What would even help? "A healing potion. I don't know, maybe we can make it stop hurting him."

The look on Alfric's face reflected Samson's own helplessness. They both knew it wouldn't help, but Alfric offered Samson a potion anyway, his free hand tight on the hilt of his sword.

"Nicolai," Samson called out over the pained whine, "look at me."

Nicolai shuddered as more crystal spikes broke through his back, through his armour, like a dragon's spine. Stone cracked under his fingers as he clutched at the ground, more spikes cropping up along the veins of his forearms.

"Nicolai," Samson said again.

Finally Nicolai looked up, but even his eyes were red crystal. Samson swallowed down his bile and offered the potion.

Samson was expecting this to end like it had before, like it had with Meredith -- the crystals would eventually overtake Nicolai's body completely, and he would die, unmoving. But, something had changed, either in the way the lyrium was refined or the way Nicolai could handle it, and he still moved easily, hampered more by the sensation than the crystals. He grabbed at the potion, splintering the bottle into Samson's fingers, bits of glass sealing themselves into the older templar's skin, chased by the healing liquid.

And then the whining stopped, and Nicolai rose up, with a roar, half again as large as he'd been when he fell, the red crystals wrapped around him like some kind of golem armour.

Samson leapt back, trying to chew the glass out of his fingers. "Nicolai, are you all right?" he called, between spitting shards. "Are you still with us?"

He'd never seen anything like this. They died when this happened. They turned into pillars of red crystal, and the next ration was dispensed with a certain gravity, but no one was ever truly lost. But, this... This was a living beast. This was still Nicolai.

Samson felt the tug of magic in the air, then, felt the temperature drop and watched delicate frost spread over red crystals and ruined skin. Then Nicolai was frozen, literally, and Samson could barely make out the glow of his not-eyes.

"Back away from it."

Samson turned towards the woman's voice, towards what he could only assume was the caster, and he was sure to give her the full force of his glare. The woman barely spared him a glance as she descended the stone steps, her eyes like ice in a face that looked carved from marble.

"'It' has a name!" Samson snapped, still picking glass from his fingers.

Her stare snapped to his, and Samson tilted his chin up defiantly. She shook her head, another spell in her hands. "It _used_ to have a name," she corrected, not without regret.

Before Samson could stop her, she cast again, and Nicolai shattered into a million icy pieces.

"What gives you the right?" Samson demanded, drawing his sword and laying down a smite, before advancing on the mage. "You've murdered one of my men! He may have been dying. I expected him to die. But, he was still alive and _recovering_! He might have been the first survivor, if you didn't just swan in here and blow him apart!"

The woman staggered under the smite, her light skin greying as the horror darted through her eyes. There was no magic she could reach, for the first time since it had come to her, all those years past. Still, her shoulders squared and her chin tipped up. "Where He is not, there is my word." She paused, a spark of amusement lighting the corners of her grey eyes. "I am Calpernia."

"And these are still my men, not target practise!" Samson barked, smiting Calpernia a second time, as the colour started to return to her cheeks.

"Target practise? Hardly. I do not miss." Calpernia's thin lips tightened into a grim line. "I saved your life."

"Who said it needed saving, witch?" Samson snapped back. He expected her to step back as he approached, but she held her ground, eyeing the sword she was currently defenseless against.

Calpernia held up a hand in a placating gesture. "You may keep arguing, if you wish, but that will not bring your soldier back. Nothing could. You are Ser Samson, I take it?" She looked around, in case someone else would come forward and accept the name. She was left with the seething little man in front of her. "Why don't you put that away so we can talk like civilised beings?"

"'Civilised'?" Samson forced through his teeth. She swept his sword back to indicate what was left of Nicolai. "What about this is _civilized_?"

Calpernia sighed heavily. "And you've decided to keep arguing. Lovely."

"Maybe you don't know what it's like to have someone else make your decisions for you, with that accent." Samson gestured at her staff. "But, I promised these men, my men, that we would take back our lives, or what was left of them, and there would be no more like us. The Elder One offered us a way to take back our destiny and destroy the institution that made slaves of everyone it touched. But, I don't guess you do much thinking about slaves, do you? That'll bite you in the ass one day."

"Your imagination is quite vivid." Calpernia's ears drew back, as her chin tipped up, and she thought of Marius, the man turned mage-hunter. "But, I am here to inspect your troops. Show me what you have done. Introduce me to the power your wield in His name. I am to evaluate your efforts and decide where they will serve us best."

"And your evaluation begins with taking the life of what might have been a great success, had he actually survived."

"My evaluation began with saving the life of the man who must explain this work to me." Calpernia's eyes wandered the courtyard, taking in the ranks of men who'd closed in, once the crystal beast had fallen. "You may begin at any time."

As she spoke, Calpernia's magic returned to her in a rush, and she would have sagged under the weight of her relief were Samson's eyes not still glaring at her. As it was, she barely blinked.

With powers like that, these southern Templars could prove to be quite formidable, assuming they had any discipline. So far, she was unimpressed with the haggard faces all around her.

"All right, men," Samson called out, finally pulling his glare away from Calpernia to address the other templars. Or ex-templars. "You heard her. I'm going to put you through your paces. But first, I need someone to clean this mess up. Who's on latrine duty? Well, congratulations, you've been promoted to corpse control."

As Samson watched them sweep up what was left of poor Nicolai, he wondered how many others he would lose like that before this was over.

* * *

* * *

As spring wore on, the breezes grew warmer and the flowers bloomed in the great gardens that sprawled out from the estate at Ghislain. The sun warmed the table, bringing the faintest prickle of sweat to the space between her shoulders, where the grand gold collar that fanned up around her head braced against her spine. And yet, across from her, his aged hands still held a hot cup of tea, where they jutted from the sleeves of his fur-trimmed winter dressing gown. He couldn't be troubled to dress for her, any more, and she worried -- not that he might be getting too familiar or taking her for granted, but that he was simply growing too old and too tired for the Game. It had cost his daughter, but that had been the daughter's own choice. As much as anything could be said to be an independent decision in Orlais.

But, the breeze, however warm and sweet-smelling, brought no respite from the ongoing politics of the Valmonts. The changing weather had not made the empress reappear in Val Royeaux or anywhere else. She'd last been seen, rumour said, in Jader, just off the Imperial Highway into Ferelden. Rumour also speculated she may have fled to take refuge with the queen. But, what woman in power would harbour the ruler of the nation her father fought so long and hard against? What woman would harbour the woman who tried to not share, but take her husband? Surely not Anora.

The thin, shaking hands brought the last of the tea to his mouth, and she was there to pour more into the cup as soon as it touched the table. He smiled at her. She still had that.

For now, they spoke of inconsequential things, the warming weather, the cooling tea, but she knew they were both thinking about the fate of Orlais -- their fate. He was still a player of the Game as much as she, whether he was up to it or not, and with the Grand Duke missing as well, his -- their -- footing was tenuous. Of course, with any upset of power came opportunity, and twenty, thirty years ago, he would have been in his element.

Today, he couldn't even remember how she liked her tea, and her heart ached to see him so frail. Today, she was his hands, and she would have to be his wit as well.

"Beautiful day. Did it rain yesterday?" he asked for the third time since she had been there.

"It barely sprinkled," was her well-practised answer.

"Have you seen Celene? It must be almost time for you to go to Val Royeaux, again, unless you're joining her in Halamshiral, this year?" He sipped at the tea, oblivious.

"No, my dear, the Empress is still on her holiday. I will probably see her again in Halamshiral, but it looks like she's going to be late."

"You've told me all this before, haven't you?" He sighed. "I'm terribly sorry. I'm just not feeling myself, today." Another sip of tea, and his eyes lingered on her face. "Tell me of Montsimmard. Have you been confirmed? When will you know?"

"When the war is over," she replied, with a comforting smile, reaching over the table to take one of his hands in hers. "Things will be different, then. You will be different. I'll make sure of it."

"It's all right. We always knew this day would come. You don't have to work so hard, my sweet." His smile seemed fragile, like the rest of his face had become. After more than twenty years, she still took joy in it.


	124. Chapter 124

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Chantry withdraws its construction funds from Kirkwall, to get Haven prepared for the Conclave. Cassandra has an offer for Cullen.

The summer heat threatened, even with the cool breeze from the sea winding through the market. As a port town, Kirkwall was rarely too hot, even at the height of summer, just as it rarely took snow, in the winter. But, as the season changed, the streets looked brighter, flowers heavy on the trees and little sprigs of yellow between the cobblestones. Cullen had almost forgotten what summer in Kirkwall was like, with the pressure of the job, since he'd become commander. But, Anton had insisted on lunch, today -- a real lunch, a public lunch, a lunch that required trousers -- in the middle of Lowtown. And so, Cullen found himself sitting across the table from his husband, the Viscount, on the patio of Tyrone's, while Anton flirted and joked with the locals who passed, as they waited for their food.

A young elven woman shook Anton's hand, with a smile, and then led the gaggle of children she was watching toward another shop. Anton turned back to Cullen and the public smile slid off his face, as he pulled a letter out of his doublet and tossed it on the table, between their tall glasses of mint tea. "Did you hear about this?" he asked. It was a fair question -- as the two highest ranking people in the city, both of them tended to receive notice if the Chantry had something to say. "The Divine's pulling the construction team and the funding for the Chantry."

"For the Conclave," Cullen replied, nodding and running a hand through his hair, as he sighed. "I hope this means we're allowed to hire a local team to finish the work. It would be cheaper and faster. If your brother was working on it, it would already be done."

"Which is what I would have liked to have done in the first place, but _that_ brother has already been commissioned to work in Gwaren. And the other brother within shouting distance has no architectural experience beyond kicking over Artie's sandcastles as a child."

"Define 'shouting distance'," Cullen muttered into his tea.

Anton paused. "My shouting, not Cormac's. And I did not need to think about Cormac's shouting just before eating." He drank his mint tea as though it were something stronger. "Regardless, the Chantry's a mess right now, and it looks like it's going to stay a mess."

"And you're the one who's going to be getting the complaints from citizens, even though it's not your area," Cullen replied with a pasted-on smile as he looked over the letter Anton had handed him. "But, if this Conclave actually _accomplishes_ something, I won't mind praying without a ceiling for a few more months."

"Just praying?" Anton teased. "It's starting to warm up a bit..."

"Anton Hawke, I am not going to engage in your depraved, if delightful, indiscretions _in the Chantry_." Cullen smacked his tea onto the table with a stony glare, trying to ignore the rising heat in the back of his neck.

"What? No. Not in the Chantry!" Anton laughed, covering his face with one hand, as he leaned back in his chair. "Are you crazed? That's asking to be assassinated. No, I was thinking maybe on the roof, or in the garden. It's getting to be the season for the garden again, and we should definitely enjoy it."

Cullen blushed outright, burying his face in his hands, still holding the letter. "Of course you meant the garden. I'm just ... distracted. This letter... This Conclave..." He sighed. "What are we going to do? If things go wrong, this is going to be a lot more serious than Sebastian."

Much of the humour drained from Anton's face at that, and he considered, tracing the cup's handle with his thumb. "We'll just have to hope things go right," Anton said, forcing back his good cheer for his husband's sake. He already knew his husband was losing sleep over this, despite his claims to the contrary. The lines around his face were more pronounced.

Then Cullen sat up straighter in his seat, frowning at something past Anton's shoulder. Someone, Anton knew, though he had hoped it was their waiter with their food.

"I apologise for interrupting your lunch, viscount, Knight-Commander," said an accented woman's voice Anton recognized as the Seeker's, "but I overheard you discussing the Conclave."

Anton knew that was his cue to offer her a seat, but he was peeved at having lunch with his husband interrupted, despite what his smile said.

Cassandra lingered awkwardly, expecting to be offered a seat, but when one was not forthcoming, she continued. "I had hoped to bring Commander Cullen to the Conclave, to share his concerns directly with the Divine. It is, after all, a meeting to put a stop to this war before it can drag any more down with it. Kirkwall would demonstrate that the war is unnecessary, though I'm sure there will be arguments that Kirkwall demonstrates nothing but that mages get what they want when they blow things up, which is what the Circles were designed to prevent. Either way, I do not see the city before me as a failure. Certainly not yet. I see healthy citizens and no more talk of rebellion than one finds in any city, with or without mages."

"And you want me to travel to Ferelden to meet with the Divine, leaving my city without a Knight-Commander? You understand the work we're doing here is revolutionary, whether or not it should be. However much I may desire to meet with the Divine, I cannot help but look at this opportunity and see a trap." Cullen snorted and rubbed his face. "On the other hand, maybe I'm spending too much time with my husband, who actually is facing assassins around every corner, and Anton, if you get killed, I will never forgive you."

"Maker, I'm not going to _die_! Once -- just once -- I got shot with an arrow. And that was the Crows. You can't really do better than the Crows, and they failed." Anton chuckled and stretched his legs to the side of the table, blocking the obvious place to set another chair. "They also failed to kill my cousin, and she married the assassin. Fortunately, I'm already married, but this seems like an Amell thing."

Cullen had to give the Seeker credit that she didn't even blink at that. The Amell/Hawke family took some getting used to, but she either took it in stride or was judging them in silence. Cullen would put his money on the latter.

"You have trained your men well," Cassandra said, addressing Cullen. "Surely you can find someone to fill your shoes for a couple of weeks. As for any threats to your person, I swear on my life that that will not happen and that I will see to it personally." 

Anton scoffed under his breath, but Cullen found that he believed she meant it. He had not known her for long, but after sharing an office with her, Cullen had come to know Cassandra as someone who favoured blunt honesty to politics. Cullen could admire that.

"That is a nice sentiment," Anton replied before he could, "but why should I entrust my husband's safety with you and you alone?" As he spoke, Cassandra shuffled out of the way of their waiter, who finally arrived with their food.

"Then send him with bodyguards you can trust. I mean to assure you both that it is not the intention of the Divine, nor is it my intention, to bring any harm to Commander Cullen." Cassandra looked as if she might become offended, given another moment to consider it.

"She's probably right, Anton," Cullen admitted, slipping a coin to the waiter, with a quick, mouthed 'thank you'. "Can Aveline spare anyone, or would you rather send me out with Carver?"

"I wouldn't trust Carver with you!" Anton scoffed, picking up a flatbread loaded with fried bean cakes and salad, with a drippy white sauce. "Maker, he'd stab you before you even landed in Ferelden."

"Your brother doesn't hate me that much," Cullen reminded him, drizzling honey into his glass before he poured more tea.

"Not yet, he doesn't. Try taking him away from Merrill, though..." Anton shook his head and took a bite, holding up a finger of the other hand to signify he wasn't done. "Better, don't. We'll get someone else. Keran. Zevran. Or just take Merrill with you."

"I need Keran here, and I'm not hauling off the Crow who may or may not be protecting my husband from _other Crows_." Cullen shook his head, but did consider taking Merrill along, for a moment. "And I can't take Merrill for protection, she's a baroness! What would people say?"

"Then I'll pay my cousin to send some Wardens to look after you. I'm sure she can spare a couple. They're apolitical. Won't really get in the way, since they've got no stake," Anton offered, around a mouthful of half-chewed food.

Cullen considered that as he stirred his tea, spoon clinking against the inside of the cup. "I can't say that's the worst idea you've had," he said, "but then again, considering some of the... interesting ideas you have concerning dragons, that might not be saying much."

Cassandra did blink at that. She had heard of them taking down a high dragon, but she wasn't sure she wanted to know what Cullen was referring to.

"You just can't appreciate my genius," Anton sniffed. He paused to lick some white sauce off his finger before diving back into his flatbread.

Cullen poked at his own flatbread, turning a pensive look Cassandra's way. "What do you think?" he asked. "Would the Divine allow that?"

Cassandra straightened, clearly pleased that Cullen was asking her opinion. "I suspect she would, but I can find out for sure."

"Make sure it's all right. I don't want Kirkwall causing an international incident because we brought in some Wardens." Anton washed down another mouthful with his tea. "And how long are you keeping my delightfully dragony husband?"

" _Anton_!" Cullen hissed, eyes widening.

Cassandra looked between the two of them, then decided she was better off not knowing. "No more than a couple of months. I'm sure Divine Justinia will see this settled quickly."

"I'm taking a week off, before you go." Anton pointed across the table, at his husband. "And I expect you to spend it with me. In bed. I want to stock up before you leave me all alone in charge of the city."

Cullen looked horrified. "What? Is Bran leaving, too?"

Anton blinked. "What exactly do you think I've got going on with Bran?"

"Not your bed! The city!" Cullen huffed, stopping himself just before he ran his sauce-covered fingers through his hair. "Bran and Aveline will still be here to keep you from doing anything ... too revolutionary without me, right?"

"Funny, when Bran went to Starkhaven, the other week, he prohibited me to do anything without consulting you and Aveline, first." Anton squinted across the table, suspiciously, voice taking on a teasing tone. "It's almost like I'm just a figurehead in my own city!"

"Drats!" Cullen teased in kind. "The ruse is up!"

"I see how it is," Anton said, clapping a hand over his heart. "All this time you were just seducing me for political gain, weren't you? I'm more than just a pretty face, you know!"

Cullen considered a comment about some of Anton's other fine traits but decided that Cassandra did not need that image. She cleared her throat awkwardly as though to remind them that she was there.

"I take it then that you will attend the Conclave," she said, bringing them back to business, "provided the Divine approves a warden escort?"

Unlike Anton, Cullen waited until he had finished chewing to answer. "I suppose I am, yes."

"I look forward to an end to this conflict, and I will be proud to have you at my side for the Divine's decision." Cassandra's eyes drifted down from Cullen's face and she eyed the food longingly.

Anton still didn't move his feet. "You know, if you go inside, you can get take-away."


	125. (Summer 9:40)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artie and his team leave for Gwaren. Anton suffers for the lack of his brother.

The wind off the bay was cool, blowing away the heat from the docks, but the dockers still sweated as they loaded the ship bound for Gwaren. It wasn't a usual port, for Ferelden -- most trade went through Highever or Amaranthine -- but Lord Hawke could afford to pay the longer route. A couple dozen people stood ready to board, others still saying their farewells, and a large number of elves and dwarves stood out in the crowd, unlike the mages who blended in but for their staves.

"Don't fall off the boat, all right? We're already short a Hawke. I don't need to be short two." Anton looked oddly concerned, in a way he hadn't when Cormac left.

"You're already short two," Fenris pointed out. "Your sister lives in Starkhaven. Perhaps more correctly, your sister has conquered Starkhaven."

Anton glared, briefly. "Fine, fine. There's only three of us left, you slightly taller shit, so don't fall in the sea." He pointed at Fenris. "Make sure my brother doesn't fall in the sea. He'll start sorting the fish by colour, and we'll never get him back."

"At least we know he won't barf on them, unlike a certain other missing Hawke," Carver drawled, armour clinking as he folded his arms across his chest.

"You just don't want to be left alone with him," Artemis said to Anton, pointing a thumb at Carver. "Don't worry. I won't fall into the sea, and I won't barf. And like a certain other brother, I won't _arf_ either."

Anton's look of concern shifted to a wicked grin, while Artie's grin shifted to a look of concern. Artemis held his staff between them before Anton could pounce on him, but Anton feinted and darted to the left and grabbed Artie's face by the chin.

"Don't you dare!" Artemis shrieked even as Anton licked a stripe up the side of his face.

"Dog kisses!" Anton proclaimed, cackling even under the weight of his brother's shove, which knocked him back, careening into Carver.

"You are disgusting." Carver groaned and tried to shove Anton away, but not quickly enough to avoid a chin full of slobber. "You're also the Viscount of Kirkwall."

"What's the city going to think, that I'm a dog lord?" Anton scoffed and wiped the drool off his nose. "They know that. And when'd you get so blighted tall?"

"He did it out of spite, you know," Fenris teased. "Just to be certain you couldn't reach to lick his face."

"I need taller boots." Carver muttered, wiping his face with his hand, and then his hand on Anton's shirt.

"Well, he should've tried harder." Anton laughed, before turning back to Artemis. "If you need anything, write me. Unless it's more elves. Don't write me if you need more elves. I don't want to know. But, anything else, I'll see if I can't pull some strings for you."

Artemis's face twisted in a smile that could have been fond, if he was not busy trying to wipe away even the memory of Anton's tongue. "By 'pull some strings', you mean cut some strings, don't you? Purse strings, that is."

Anton's expression was the epitome of innocence. "I am viscount, now. I have people to do that for me."

Fenris coughed into his fist to hide a laugh.

"And I assure that I already have all the elf I can handle," Artemis added, bumping Fenris's shoulder with his. He was grateful that Theron was out of earshot so that he couldn't turn that into a crass joke.

Anton held up a hand. "I don't need to know how you handle elves, Artie. Just be safe."

* * *

* * *

The book wasn't where he expected it to be. Anton knew where he put it, but there was no reason for it to be there -- when he put things there, they magically reappeared in other places, and it wasn't in any of the six places he expected it to be. Finally, in a fit of pique, he checked the corner of his desk, where he'd set it before going home -- and found the book.

As he sat down, swearing, the door swung open to reveal Bran, with a sour look on his face. "You are not taking a long lunch, today."

"That wasn't on my list of things to--" Anton's confusion twisted into a wicked smile, as he spotted Cullen standing behind Bran. "I am making no promises."

"Perhaps not, but I am," Bran retorted. "Your next appointment will be here within the hour, and I will be bringing her in here, regardless of the state of your office or clothing."

"Fine, fine. But, on one condition: figure out what happened to the latest printing of volume twenty-four of the Law of Kirkwall. I had it yesterday, and now I've just had to go looking for volume seven, which I found, but ... twenty-four is not in the shelf."

"You left it on my desk," Bran pointed out. "Were you expecting me to shelve it?"

Anton opened his mouth, only to close it with an audible click, a confused frown furrowing his brow. "No, I suppose not."

But he _had_ been expecting it to be back where it should be, where it made sense to be.

Bran gave him a weary look, complete with accompanying sigh. "Would you _like_ me to shelve it for you?"

"Well, someone probably should," Anton said, his tone implying that that someone would not be him. Shaking his head, Bran left the two alone, leaving the door open behind him to discourage any unseemly behaviours... only to be foiled when Cullen nudged the door closed with his foot.

"Are you all right?" Cullen asked, stepping closer to lean his hip against the corner of Anton's desk. "You seem a bit.. agitated."

"I am having a day," Anton said, running a hand through his hair. "I couldn't find one book, then another. Couldn't find my blighted boots this morning." Anton stuck out one foot, a miserable look on his face as he revealed a shoe that, while fashionable, did not go with the outfit he was wearing. "I think I might be losing my mind. Comfort me, Cullen." He leaned forward in his chair to rest his cheek against Cullen's stomach.

"The cupboard by the bed is in disarray," Cullen remarked, neutrally. "Have you been paying the housemaids on time?"

The light finally went on in Anton's head. "It's not the housemaids. We have housemaids, but there are rooms they're not allowed in -- like mine. Ours. It's my damned brother."

" _Carver_ is rearranging your things? What did you do to piss him off, this time?" Cullen asked, looking down at his miserable husband.

"No, not Carver. Don't be ridiculous. Artemis left for Ferelden, this week, and now everything's a disaster, because he's not tidying it into oblivion. We thought it would stop, when he got his own house, but every time he came over, he'd shelve books and re-organise ... that cupboard." Anton groaned and smacked his head against Cullen's firm abs a few times.

"Are you telling me your brother's been handling our--?" A flush crept up the back of Cullen's neck.

"You've handled my brother's junk. I don't think you get to object." Anton pointed out, nibbling at the top of Cullen's trousers.

Cullen cleared his throat and tugged at his collar, feeling his face heat. "In fairness, I was under the impression that it was your junk at the time. This is different." It occurred to Cullen that Artie would have seen the dragon, and he was sure then that his face was a uniform shade of red.

Anton laughed, and Cullen's stomach muscles twitched at the movement. "He has also organized the, uh, bedroom accoutrements of our other three siblings, and I guarantee you at least one of them is kinkier than we are." Then he considered that the others siblings included a necromancer and a templar dating a blood mage. "In fact, they all might be kinkier than we are." Anton sat up, looking thoroughly disgruntled. "Are we the _vanilla couple_?"

Cullen wasn't sure why his husband sounded so dismayed about that, but he was still stuck on the implications of Artie cleaning in their room. "So... I don't suppose it was you or the housemaids who organized my underwear, then?"

"Has it been neatly rolled and sorted by colour on the left side of the drawer? If it has, that's Artie." Anton chuckled, nuzzling Cullen's shirt. "You get used to it, I promise. He's been doing it for as long as I can remember."

"It's not whether I'll get used to it! That's your brother fondling my underthings!" Cullen huffed and folded his arms, before realising that prevented him from glaring at his husband.

"Hardly _fondling_. I think any fondling between the two of you is long out of the way, unless you want to tell me something." Anton paused and looked up as Cullen unfolded his arms and the glare intensified. "No? Great. Now I don't have to think about it." He paused, tugging at the buttons on Cullen's trousers. "But, he's convinced that if everything isn't the way he wants it, we're all going to be eaten by monsters. It's best just to humour him, especially in times like these. We can use all the help we can get."

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. "Protection from monsters?"

Anton nodded solemnly, before pressing his face into the small bit of Cullen's skin showing in his partially unbuttoned trousers.

"Don't you have a meeting? In the next few moments?" Cullen protested. At least Anton's nose wasn't cold, this time, unlike any of a hundred times in the winter. He was sure Bran didn't need to hear him squeal ever again -- and he was quite sure Bran had heard at least one of those.

Anton hummed in acknowledgement but did not let up nuzzling that tempting bit of skin, undoing more buttons to give him more skin. "Bran said 'within the hour'. That could be a few moments or that could be forty moments. Who knows. But I'm feeling lucky and feeling like you're maybe about to get lucky."

Cullen rolled his eyes at the line but sank his fingers into Anton's hair, not pulling away. He should at least pretend to be the responsible party, here, but it was difficult to say no to Anton.

"Viscount!" Bran shouted through the door, making Cullen jump. Glancing back, he realized that the door was still open a sliver and felt mortified all over again. "What did I say? Put your husband's sword away!"

Anton groaned against Cullen's skin, throwing Bran a rude gesture before pulling reluctantly away. "Don't worry, Bran, his sword remains sheathed."

"Commander, please close your trousers and stop encouraging him," Bran sighed, returning his attention to the paperwork on his desk, as Cullen gestured accusingly at Anton and fought to regain control of his trousers from the rogue still attempting to plunder them.


	126. Chapter 126

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Tevinter elflets get into trouble on Sundermount.

In the field behind the village, most families still kept their aravels, maintaining them in travel-worthy condition despite their new stone homes and the lack of halla. Maren had gone to Ferelden, and they all wanted to believe she'd return with a new herd, even if they had little intention of moving, now. Human politics were notoriously unstable, and the _ability_ to leave at a moment's notice was vital, even without the desire. Most often, the children would play between the landships, chasing, hiding, and hunting birds.

And that was where Paivel found them, when the earth shook and the trees twisted. He rushed out at the shouts from the scouts on the hill, just in time to see a tree on the edge of the village slam down onto Theron and Kalli's aravel.

"I thought your husband and his shem were in Ferelden," he teased, as Kalli and Feynriel joined him.

"Oh, don't tell me, Earthquake Boy Junior? Aren't they a little young for that?" Kalli groaned, waving the children away from the creaking walls of the aravel.

One of them still looked angry, if also completely terrified, and Feynriel picked her out easily. "Tree's a bit much, don't you think?" he joked, crouching next to the girl and looking up at the branches jutting through the splintered wood of the roof, beside them. "Throw something smaller, next time."

"Or don't throw things at all," Paivel suggested, rubbing his face, exhaustedly. "But, I don't think this was throwing. Not the way the ground rumbled."

"What happened?" Kalli asked, looking no less tired as she pushed her hair back from her face. All around her were wide-eyed and startled elflings, most of them Tevinter, and she wished she had her husband's ease with the lot of them.

The girl who had knocked over the tree pointed at an older boy off to the side, her cheeks splotchy and her breath hiccupping with the threat of sobs. "He pushed me!" she accused. "I just tried to push him back!"

"I barely touched her!" the boy insisted, but a stern look from Kalli cut off his arguing, and he grumbled under his breath instead.

Feynriel wiped away the tears now streaming down the girl's face, murmuring assurances that seemed to help calm her.

"This is the time," Paivel murmured to Kalli. "We will learn how many mages we have, and then we will determine how to choose a Keeper."

"I would have thought Varania would be--" Kalli started, but Paivel shook his head.

"She doesn't want to lead. And Feynriel... well, he can't. Look at him. We cannot escape the grasp of the shemlen, just to take one as our leader. I know he's only half. I know he's one of us, but it's a dangerous precedent, and it can't be allowed." Paivel watched as Feynriel coaxed the whole story out of the girl.

"She says Kairos pushed her from behind, while she was picking berries," Feynriel explained, as he noticed Paivel's attention.

"It's not true!" the boy yelled, from where he stood by Kalli.

"So, what is true?" Kalli asked, looking a bit impatient.

"I was just running and then I tripped and fell! I barely touched her!" Kairos insisted, crossing his arms and glaring at the girl.

"No, you shoved me and called me a bad word!" the girl retorted. "Kaffas, you said!"

"Because I tripped!" Kairos threw his hands up.

"You're such a liar!" the girl shouted back, hands balled into fists. She stamped her foot, and the ground seemed to tremble in response. Kairos backed away from her, but she looked no less scared than he did.

"Diantha," Feynriel called to her in a soothing voice, and the harsh line of her shoulders softened, the ground no longer shaking.

Paivel was glad to see no more trees falling over.

"And what about Merrill?" Kalli said, drawing him back to their conversation.

Paivel shot her a disapproving look. "I am surprised you even need to ask that."

"I don't 'need' to. I am well aware of her... 'shortcomings'. But, she is the only one of us with a Keeper's knowledge, and that is no small thing, as we've found."

"She will teach Feynriel. He will teach the children. When the next Arlathvhen comes, we will have the halla to send our children to learn from other clans' Keepers... Ghilan'nain willing." Paivel sighed. "It's all we can do, really. This has been a difficult time for our clan, but you know this. We have survived this long, and now we have a future. It will be only a few more difficult years." Paivel paused, studying Feynriel and Diantha. "Can you help her, or should I fetch Varania?"

"It's just primal." Feynriel smiled, brightly. "This is no big deal. If I could figure it out, she should have no trouble. I didn't start my career in other people's heads, you know."

"I do know." Paivel nodded. "Your mother was so frightened for you."

"You hear him?" Feynriel asked Diantha. "And I'm just fine, now. You will be, too. Just a few quick lessons on how to not do that unless you mean to, and when Lord Hawke and his builders get back from Ferelden, maybe they can show you some other things. I didn't learn from their teachers, but you get to learn from all of us."

Diantha still looked distressed, but she calmed at his words and even offered him a small smile. She had watched the builders at work, after all, and she and her friends had marvelled at what they could do.

"Is everyone all right? I saw the tree fall!"

Kalli turned to see Arianni approaching them, a determined set to her shoulders and a worried frown on her face. "The aravel is a bit worse for wear," Kalli replied, "but everyone is fine."

Arianni paused beside Kalli and considered first the crushed aravel and then her son, crouching in front of a young girl who clearly had just been crying. She put her hands on her hips. "Feynriel, what did you do?"

"What? Nothing, mama!" Feynriel blinked, sitting back on his heels.

"Don't you 'nothing' me, young man!" Arianni squinted at her son, who continued to just look confused.

"I found another mage!" Feynriel pointed at Diantha. "I bet she'll grow up and be Keeper one day."

"Are you telling me you did not just drop a tree on that aravel?" Arianni's gaze could carve stone.

"Theron took his shem back to Ferelden." Kalli laughed and bumped Paivel with her hip. "I don't think you have to worry about young men knocking down aravels in their spare time."

"You should have seen their faces. I thought that little shemlen's brother was going to manifest the wrath of Elgar'nan, himself. I tried to warn him he didn't want to know what was going on in that aravel, but I had to stop Keeper Marethari from smothering them both in vines and leaving them for the crows." Paivel chuckled at the memory of Cormac returning to the fire, indignant, cheeks aglow with some combination of fury and embarrassment. "But, he's not joking, Arianni. It's Diantha's first day as a mage."

"Blood of the Dales," Arianni swore. "And what are we supposed to do about that?"

"Same as we always do about that. Don't forget, you're not in the city any more. There's nothing to hide, out here." Paivel shrugged, stepping up to rest a hand on her shoulder. "Your son is going to teach her how to be our new Keeper, and they're going to breathe the life back into our clan."

"Not the way you do, I hope!" Arianni snorted and shot Paivel a sideways glare. "Don't you think she's a bit young, yet?"

"Mother!" Feynriel groaned, tipping backward to sprawl across the leafy earth beside the damaged aravel.

"Don't take that tone with me!" Arianni protested. "This isn't something I have to worry about with you, is it?" She gestured around them, at the tree-flattened aravel and at Paivel, indicating the lewd story he had just mentioned.

Red splotches showed up on Feynriel's fair skin and darkened the tips of his slightly pointed ears. "I'm a somniari, mama! I don't knock over trees! I deal with dreams!"

Kalli didn't quite manage to stopper a snort, considering dreams in the same context as earthquakes. At Arianni's questioning look, Kalli shook her head, lips pressed thin against more laughter.


	127. Chapter 127

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diantha is not the only new mage. Feynriel and Paivel argue over bringing Merrill back to teach the kids a Keeper's skills.

The journey had taken them from one cliff to another, Theron reflected, looking out toward the port, which gaped into the streaky Fereldan stone like the mouth of some great beast. On the other hand, great beasts, as far as he'd noticed, weren't usually so well-lit, inside. An enormous metal sign hung from just under the cliff, and as they drew closer, he could read it -- Port of Gwaren, it said, in Common, and he assumed it said as much in two other languages, but he couldn't read those. One of them looked like it might be Dwarven -- just enough different to Common not to make sense.

He caught sight of Artie, out of the corner of his eye, standing between him and Fenris, at the rail. "You nervous about coming back to Ferelden?"

Artemis's fingers tap-tapped at the rail. "No," he said, at first. Then, a half shrug, and, "Yes. A bit. Last time we -- I -- was in Gwaren, we were running for our lives. But the absence of darkspawn makes it much more welcoming." He beamed at Theron, but the expression was forced.

"The absence of darkspawn makes anything more welcoming," Theron replied with a nod.

To Artemis's other side, Fenris snorted. "I have seen plenty of places that are unwelcoming without darkspawn."

"Imagine how much more unwelcoming they would be _with_ darkspawn."

Fenris's eyes glazed over, but Artemis chuckled, shaking his head. "You did not see our home before we renovated," Artie said. "I am not sure darkspawn would have made it much worse." His fingers took up their tapping again, and his smile faded. "I hope Orana's not having too much trouble."

"I am certain Orana has more trouble when we _are_ home," Fenris assured his husband, with a small chuckle. "There are a limited number of things she could be interrupting, with us on holiday. Perhaps the cats wrestling in the entry hall? I have no doubt that she and Evie are enjoying having the place to themselves, and I have even less doubt that it will be clean enough, when we return that even you will never be able to determine what of our furniture they may have been enjoying."

"I do like your furniture," Theron said, still leaning on the rail. "I keep trying to convince Kalli to let me get a couple of pieces, now that we have whole rooms to ourselves. Paivel insists it's bad for morale to buy things made in Tevinter, though. I argued that most of what we have from Tevinter, we got for free."

"I paid for it." Fenris snorted at Theron around Artie's shoulder. "And considering that we took half your clan with us, I hope they are holding up without your constant and obvious presence."

"Kalli and Paivel will do fine without me. And I'm sure Varania's helping with the children." Theron waved off the concern.

"My sister, who named her children 'small' and 'bastard'?" Fenris sighed. "Perhaps we should have left you behind, after all."

Theron grinned. "And here I thought she was naming them indirectly after you."

Fenris's scowl was almost convincing as he pretended to reach for his sword.

"But your point remains," Theron teased, taking Artemis by the shoulders and placing him more directly between them. Artie did not budge at first, but then he moved where he was directed, looking far too amused. Once Fenris gave up his 'attack', Theron leaned back over the rail. "Anyway, the children have a whole clan to take care of them, and I'm sure Cullen hasn't let your brother destroy the city. Either brother."

Artemis nodded and finally forced his fingers to stop tapping. "Of course. You're right. I'm sure they're all doing just fine without us."

* * *

* * *

Kairos didn't see the smoke, but neither did Paivel.

"Why does she get to learn magic and I don't?" Kairos demanded, stomping his foot at Paivel. Smoke had begun to rise from something other than the village fire -- the winter shrubs that had shed their flowers in spring, and were now just spindly wood, smouldered around him. "This is stupid! You just like her better!"

"Some people are born with the blessing. The rest of us have to make do with the work of our hands and our wits," Paivel explained, calmly, remembering the talk he'd had to give Theron, more than twenty years ago.

"So, what, the gods don't think I'm good enough? I'm good enough!" Kairos turned his face to the sky. "Why don't you come down here, Mythal, and I'll kick your ass! I'll show you I'm good enough!"

As the boy continued to shout at the sky, the smouldering wood burst into flame, a fire far larger than the dry scrub could support on its own. The unnatural flame rose up and loomed, like an angry bear the size of a three-storey house, blistering the earth as the fire curled inward, as if to shield Kairos from anything outside.

The words on Paivel's lips dried up. Two mage manifestations in one day? The gods had either blessed or cursed them. Considering the size of that fire, Paivel was leaning towards option two.

Next to him, Arianni whispered a faint, "Oh my."

"Congratulations, Kairos," Kalli said over the roaring fire, legs tensed to run if he lost control of that fire. This close, just the heat of it was intense. "It looks like Mythal heard you."

Kairos looked back at the fire, eyes wide and mouth gaping as he had to arch his neck back to look up at the inferno's full height. Kalli watched that slack-jawed astonishment switch to slack-jawed glee.

"And now I think we can agree that your first magic lesson starts right now. Let's try maybe putting _out_ the fire?" Kalli glanced back at Paivel, who shrugged and nodded in agreement.

"Vishante kaffas," Feynriel swore, taking in the way the fire swelled and reached with every motion the boy made. "Stay by Kalli," he told Diantha, the chill quick to his fingertips as he tried to wrap a wall of ice around the outside of the flame. It wouldn't last long, in that heat, but he hoped to keep it from spreading into the wood.

"What are you doing?" Kairos complained, and the flames lashed out toward Feynriel. "Oops. Why's it doing that?"

"You're not happy with me. The fire wants to make that better. It's going to follow your anger, but it may also follow your joy. Wherever you lead, it will follow, and sometimes, it's going to try to jump ahead of you. But, what I want you to do, now, is sit down and think about doing something quiet. Take the fire down with you. Tell it to sit."

"How?" Kairos asked, sitting on the ground and watching the fire draw closer. At this distance, even he began to feel the heat. "It doesn't want to!"

"I'd say someone should go get Ser Shemlen, but I don't think we have the time," Kalli murmured.

"The fire's an extension of you," Feynriel said, just as calm, just as patient as he had been with Diantha, at least to outward appearances. "Fire's particularly stubborn, I hear, but it will listen to you if you're clear enough. I know you're thinking about how incredible it is and want to test its limits, but that is for another time. Focus on something smaller and simpler, like a pleasant campfire. Yes, think about sitting in front of a campfire just before bed, listening to Paivel's stories."

Kairos closed his eyes to better picture it, and, gradually, the flames diminished, their angry whirl slowing to a gentle sway as they shrank.

Kalli let out a breath. Her exposed skin felt hot, as though she had been sitting out in the sun for hours. The fire was not gone, but at least now it was something they might try to douse.

"Good job!" Feynriel smiled with relief. "How about the two of you come to Kirkwall with me, tomorrow, and we'll see if Merrill and Carver know any good books about fire and stone? But, you'll have to stay calm, while we're in the city. I can't have you two knocking over buildings and setting the wreckage on fire."

"Perhaps you should leave them here, when you get the books," Paivel suggested. "You don't want to start a panic, if something happens."

"Well, then, I'm going to have to bring Merrill back with me. She has to at least see them, so she knows what to teach me and Varania. You know that. Without a Keeper, this is going to be much harder, and Varania and I already have talents that may not be enough for what Merrill needs to pass on. They're younger. They'll be able to pick up things outside their specialities a lot faster, but if we can start with the things that are their specialities, it's going to be a lot easier on everyone."

"We will see." Paivel sighed and watched Kairos playing with the little fire in front of him.

"They're dangerous, Paivel. I know it. I was dangerous, once. There isn't time for you to 'see'. I can teach them basic control, maybe a few fancy Tevinter tricks, the basic assortment of elemental and primal spells every Chantry-trained mage in Thedas knows, but the sooner Merrill knows what she's dealing with, the faster we can get them learning a Keeper's skills. You can't afford to lose them to the wrong kind of training. I could make Magisters' apprentices of them, with one hand to each, but that's not really going to help. I'll do my best to learn from Merrill, but I'm telling you she has to know what we've got. She has to see it, so she can give us the right spells to start with."

Feynriel folded his arms and gave Paivel a thoroughly exasperated look. "I have to bring Merrill back, or I have to take them to meet her. Just once."


	128. Chapter 128

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver and Merrill agree to help Feynriel and Varania with the new mages, down by the shore, where they can't do too much damage.

In the end, they had compromised, and Feynriel had brought the new mages not into the city, but to a smooth part of beach along the Wounded Coast. The sun was bright against the white sand and shimmering water, but, here, the warmth it brought was more luxurious than stifling. Better than the stink of the city, Feynriel decided, which he knew from experience stank worse during the summer heat.

Beside him, Merrill and Varania watched the children at play. Diantha's face was tight with concentration as she and Carver set to work on building a sandcastle, using Carver's helmet as a trowel, but Kairos was more interested in kicking sand in Diantha's face. The hush of waves meeting sand didn't quite mask Diantha's shriek of protest.

"Two mages." Merrill shook her head in amazement. "And on the same day? Mythal has been generous."

"Generous," Varania repeated, as though unsure of the word. She watched Diantha throw wet sand at Kairos only to miss. "Yes." Two mages were a blessing, surely, but they were also a handful.

"Kairos!" Feynriel scolded, swatting sand at the boy. "Don't be a shit. Come on, you've got fire at your command, don't you? Do you know what you can do with that and her castle?"

"Burn it down!" Kairos's eyes widened as he marvelled at the idea.

Feynriel sighed and shot an exasperated look at Varania, who just looked amused. "No, you can make them even better. You can turn them into sparkling stone that you can pick up and take home with you. There are craftsmen in Tevinter who make little statues like that, all out of rainbow sand. If you heat it up nice and slow, it'll get sticky, and then when it cools down, you can pick it up."

"Really?" Diantha looked suddenly interested.

Fenynriel nodded, but Varania cut him off. "When I lived in Qarinus, you could find their shops behind the fishmongers'. Sometimes, they'd make amulets with metal paths in them, and you could take those a few doors down to have the lyrium poured. They were cheap trinkets, in Tevinter, but I haven't seen them in the south."

At the intrigued look in Diantha's eyes, Varania wished she had one with her to show. Kairos seemed less convinced, but he dug into the sand with his toes instead of kicking it up in Diantha's face.

"Come on," said Feynriel, coaxing Kairos a little further away from Diantha. "Why don't we try it, and you can see how great it is?"

"Are you sure about that?" Varania asked with a nervous smile. "Didn't he nearly burn down the forest?"

"We're near water," Merrill pointed out with a shrug. "The best way to control magic is to know how to use it. We can always jump in the ocean if something explodes."

Varania didn't quite understand the almost cheerful way Merrill said this, but she could not disagree.

"So... I'm supposed to do what, just set it on fire?" Kairos asked, the ground around his feet letting off a bit of steam.

"Slowly," Feynriel warned. "Try it over he--"

It was too late. The flash of flame bloomed around Diantha's little sand castle, and the water in it sizzled away in a puff of steam. Carver grabbed Diantha and turned away from the fire, reflexively laying down a smite. Everyone around him staggered at the sudden loss of magic, and Diantha began to cry.

"Sorry," Carver apologised, half-heartedly, as the fire vanished with no magic to fuel it. "It'll come back in a minute. That was just a little closer to my face than I like magic, especially the burning kind."

"And that is what happens when you frighten a templar," Merrill sighed, rubbing her face. "If you're going to be interacting with the city, you will need to know that. Use your magic to help yourself and your clan, but never depend on it completely."

Kairos looked pale and unsettled as he eyed Carver, taking a small step closer to Feynriel. Feynriel didn't like seeing that look on their faces, but at least the smite had stolen some of Kairos's bluster.

"Now, as I started to say," Feynriel said before the magic came back, "let's try heating the sand over _here_. Please do not try to use your magic so close to other people." He was about to add, 'at least until you can control it', but Feynriel was not sure that Kairos would be able to recognise his own limitations. He steered them another step away, just in case.

Carver, meanwhile, was drawing silly shapes in the sand to try to cheer Diantha up. It wasn't until her magic returned that she offered him a small smile.

Varania crouched on Carver's other side. "Do you think you could dig a hole for me, Diantha?"

"A hole? Why?" Diantha's face scrunched up. "You have Carver. I bet he can use a shovel."

Carver sputtered and Varania laughed.

"Oh, I'm sure Carver digs very nice holes, but I was hoping you could do it faster with magic." Varania smiled slyly at the girl. "Just move the ground out of the way. I heard that was how Lord Hawke made room for your village."

"Ugh, can we not bring my brother into this?" Carver huffed.

"What do you have against him? He seems much more pleasant than my brother." Varania rolled her eyes, still smiling.

"I like your brother better," Carver admitted, darting his eyes to Diantha and shrugging slightly at Varania.

"Lord Hawke's really your brother?" Diantha's eyes grew round. "Then where's your magic? And isn't he really important? Doesn't that make you really important, too?"

Carver's face twisted as he struggled not to scowl. "I have quite a lot of siblings, and not all of us have magic." Too many siblings, he didn't say. "Sometimes that happens. And him being my brother doesn't make me important. Not that I'm unimportant. Just..."

Merrill patted his shoulder and stopped him from stepping over his words. "Ser Carver is a very important templar. Loads of other templars look up to him. And not just because he's tall!" She nodded for emphasis, and Carver puffed out his chest a little before he caught himself. 

"I've never really met a templar before," Diantha admitted shyly.

"Well, I'm here to help you," Carver said with what he hoped was a disarming smile. "Where I can, anyway. But do you think you could help us and make that hole?"

"Just a hole?" Diantha asked, squinting across the beach. "Like, straight down?"

"Well, straight down probably won't be what you get, but yes. It's probably going to be curved." Varania had learned from watching Artemis and his team at work that pushing earth and stone straight down made what was next to it come up.

"Okay, so if I just push really hard..." 

Carver's eyes shot wide as he recognised the smell of magic in the air, and before he could say anything, the shoreline caved in, and the sea rolled into an enormous wave, slamming across all of them before rocking itself back into the usual motion of the tide. The hole remained like a small lake, albeit somewhat filled in by the sand dragged down by the water.

"You did that on purpose!" Kairos shouted, from where he lay sprawled on the sand, Feynriel's hand locked around his ankle.

"Did not!" Diantha protested, somewhere between frustration and alarm, her cheeks splotchy and her hands clenched into fists.

"That was good," Varania assured her, drawing her attention away from Kairos and trying to coax her back to the calmer state she had been in earlier. "A bit of extra flair, but you got the job done." More or less. Varania would have to fix it up and get rid of the water to make it useable, but it was a start.

Carver nodded in agreement and gave Diantha a crooked smile. "That's not something I could do with a shovel."

That teased a smile out of Diantha.

"So she made a hole in the ground," Kairos huffed, sitting up and folding his arms across his chest petulantly. "Big deal." 

Behind Kairos, Feynriel sent the others an exasperated look.

"Do you think you could do it smaller, this time?" Varania asked, cautiously. "Not something you could drown Carver in, just big enough to put a fire in. Paivel tells me you like the sweet fruit rolls, so I brought a bag of dough, and we can make little flat cakes of them, if I just have somewhere safe to put a fire."

Carver's stomach growled and Merrill laughed. "Well, if she can't do it, I'm going back for a shovel," Carver pronounced.

"He really does like Dalish food," Merrill promised, "just not when Theron brings it."

"I just don't like Theron."

"You don't like anybody!" Diantha laughed and looked at the ground again, trying to pick a spot further from the water, this time.

"That's not true!" Carver protested, pretending to be offended. "I like Merrill, most of the time."

That got him sand kicked in his face, which made Diantha giggle.

"What?" Carver laughed, shaking sand out of his hair, one hand up to ward off another attack, if needed. "I said most of the time! That's more than I say about my brothers!"

Merrill harrumphed, not quite holding back a smirk.

This time Diantha was relaxed and grinning as she cast. Carver still held his breath as the smell of magic filled the air, but this time no wave threatened to drown him. He still felt the earth tremble, but he had spent enough time around his brother not to be alarmed at just that.

The ground fell away more slowly, this time, and if the sea took issue, it did so much more quietly. A pit inched open further up the beach, the grinding and groaning of the stone filling the air.

"It sounds like demons," Kairos complained.

"You know, I've actually met demons," Feynriel pointed out, "and I don't think I've heard that noise."

Sweat ran down Diantha's face, as she struggled to hold on to the magic. It leapt against her grip, eager to do as she commanded, but bigger and better. Or bigger, at least. She knew better wasn't necessarily true, after that last hole.

"Like that?" she asked, letting the magic pass and shaking her hands.

Diantha looked so earnest in that moment, like she was waiting for their approval to breathe, and Varania answered that look with the widest smile she could conjure. "Exactly like that!" she said, and Diantha brightened with relief. And with more than a little pride, Varania noted.

The wider her smile, however, the deeper Kairos scowled. Before he could kick sand at anyone or light something else on fire, Varania motioned him over.

"We're going to need a fire, if we're going to have some lunch," she said. "Want to help Merrill collect some firewood, and then you can show us one of your new tricks?"

That seemed to appease him, at least for the moment. "I don't need wood to make a fire," he huffed.

"Of course not," said Merrill. "But the wood will sustain it when you want to let it go."

Kairos thought this over. "You mean it won't just keep burning by itself?"

"I know a guy," Carver started, rubbing his face with one hand, "a guy I sometimes wish I didn't know, but he could make some really big fires. And I've seen him in a fight -- it's terrifying. But, when he's out of magic, the fires go right out, unless he's caught something that can keep burning."

"Wait, you can run out of magic?" Kairos looked concerned. "That doesn't sound right."

The older mages nodded at each other. "If you use too much all at once, you'll faint," Merrill warned. "I did that once, right in the middle of a fight. And there were these giant statues trying to stomp everyone. It was terrible. But, don't worry. It'll come back when you wake up. Just be careful, and don't have a nap in battle."

Carver coughed and rubbed his nose. "Same to you, by the way. I thought you _died_."

"Oh, Carver," Merrill sighed, offering a warm smile, "it would take more than that."

"Yes. Like getting stepped on by one of those statues. Do you even hear yourself?" Carver huffed, folding his arms. "You sound like one of my brothers!"

"And you sound like Marethari," she replied, but warmly. That gave Carver pause, but he was relieved, in the end, to hear her say that name without flinching. He had thought she would never let go of that guilt. "It was a desperate moment, but I will avoid battle-napping in the future."

Kairos still looked disturbed, and Feynriel felt guilty for finding that preferable to his usual bluster. "It's important to learn your limits," Feynriel said, "and we're here to help you do that safely. I didn't have anyone to teach me when I was your age, and Ser Carver's brothers had to come help me. You're already so many steps ahead of me! But first, you have to go get that firewood."

Feynriel waited for Kairos to argue again, but he merely frowned and went to Merrill. Small victories.

Merrill talked about battles she'd fought in, while Kairos helped her gather driftwood along the beach. At first he seemed excited by the thought of magical warriors charging off to fight evil, but the more questions he asked, the less glamorous it seemed -- darkspawn blood soaking into the supplies, running out of magic, getting punched by things taller than trees.

Carver hung back with Feynriel, while Diantha bombarded Varania with questions about what it was like being a free mage in Tevinter.

"So, my brothers helped you out?" Carver asked, quietly, not to interrupt the conversation beside them. "I know Artie used to spend half his time up on Sundermount, so I shouldn't be surprised."

"The alienage, actually," Feynriel corrected. "I was what, sixteen? Seventeen? It's been years. But, I definitely remember your brothers and their, er, pirate friend." He gestured in front of his chest.

Carver laughed. "They took Izzy into the Fade? How does that even work?"

"Don't look at me! I was just some dumbass teenager who got dragged off by demons. I didn't ask too many questions." Feynriel chuckled and rubbed his nose, absently.

"Wait... Wasn't your mother's house the one to the right of the stairs, with the dragon painted on the window? I remember that. She painted it on when I replaced the glass." Carver started to realise when that must have been -- the only time he'd seen two of his brothers and Isabela down there. The day they figured out he was dating Merrill. He'd spent the entire night in expectant agony, waiting for one of them to start on him about it. But, the more he thought about it, the more he realised it wasn't like Artie had room to talk and Cormac was... glad to have him out of the house, if he was honest with himself.

Feynriel beamed. "That was the one!" he said. "I barely remember any of what happened, but from what I understand, your brothers saved my life."

Now that just made Carver's irritation seem petty, but he was used to his asshole family saving the day. "Well, good to know they weren't just in the Alienage to give me grief about seeing Merrill." Or, in one brother's case, to 'visit' the elves. Augh.

Kairos returned with more firewood than they needed, determined to show Merrill just how much he could carry all at once. He plopped the wood in front of Carver with a heavy grunt, grinning wide and smug. Merrill followed behind him with an exasperated smile and a more manageable stack of driftwood in her arms.

"Well, that looks like enough to get us through lunch," Varania drawled.

"So, here's the thing," Feynriel said, gesturing toward the pit as Carver started arranging the wood into it, "you've got to light it, not incinerate it. Think you can do it?"

Kairos nodded slowly. "A little fire, not a lot."

"And everyone else should probably back up, just in case," Carver advised, grabbing an armful of wood that hadn't gone in yet and backing away. He pointed with his other hand. "In case you need to try again."

Somewhere in the back of his head, Carver could remember his father trying to teach Bethany. He'd always been bitter about that -- she'd gotten to go play with their dad; he had to stay in and help their mother. But, after a few hours with these children, he was finally starting to get it. It wasn't all fun and games, like their father had made it look -- in fact, with three of them and no templars, the man had done an amazing job keeping himself and his family alive in those early years. Carver started to feel like the smite was almost cheating.

The wood in the fire pit burst into flame, the tower of fire stretching up into the sky.

"A little less," Feynriel suggested, ice hanging from his fingertips as he watched the flames.

They were grateful for the extra wood once Kairos had wrangled the fire down to something less capable of destroying small villages. It all reminded Carver a little too much of fighting dragons, and he had to remind himself to keep the smites and swords away.

Soon they had a reasonably sized campfire going, and Merrill and Varania applauded.

"See?" Feynriel said, tweaking Kairos's ear. "Instead of kicking sand into Diantha's face, you could be working _with_ her."

Kairos's face scrunched, and he swatted aside Feynriel's hand. "Maybe if she was less of a doo-doo head," he muttered.

Diantha just rolled her eyes instead of rising to the bait, more interested in the opportunity of food. "Will you tell us more stories?" she asked Merrill and Carver as Varania unpacked the bag of dough.

"Of course!" Merrill smiled brightly and sat down by the fire. "What do you want to hear about? Oh! How about the time the viscount and I -- I mean, he wasn't viscount then, but he is now -- went to save Lowtown from poison gas?"

"You what?" Carver looked momentarily outraged. "Anton took you where!? I'll kill him!"

"It was much less dangerous than any holiday you've taken me on," Merrill teased, before she started to tell the story of Anton's deal with the Arishok.


	129. Chapter 129

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artemis's team begins a survey of some ruins in the Brecilian Forest.

"That's weird." It was the first thing Theron had said since they'd come upon the ruins, proper, half a candle before. His silence had hung over them all like a damp, wool blanket, especially since it had come so quickly, and every attempt to speak to him had resulted in him just flapping a hand, dismissively, and glaring at some other part of a structure in irritated confusion.

"It's not 'weird', Theron, it's 'shitty'," Natia complained, from the base of the wall he was perched on. "Look at the stonework? Is this how the elves built things that were meant to last?"

"No," Theron replied, hopping down. "Actually, it's not. The décor is mostly elven, but a lot of the underlying architecture isn't. You've seen what real elven architecture looks like, up at Sundermount. Or, well, at least you've seen what they can do to a cave. We went to Orlais, when I was young. I saw the Dales. This is Fereldan."

"This is two thousand years old, if not three," Natia retorted, jabbing a finger at the stone. "There wasn't a Ferelden until, what, four hundred years ago?"

Theron snapped his fingers, staring up at the trees. "Help me out here, the word is..."

"Alamarri?" Sheena suggested, still looking at a joint in the wall that Natia had directed her toward. She could see that the walls had held up nearly as well as parts of Kirkwall, but she'd also seen the Chantry come down.

"Thank you. That." Theron gestured to the worn lumps of a different stone at the end a long row of misshapen pillars. "Some of these are really worn down, but I know the general outlines -- Dirthamen and Falon'din. But, that wall? That's like the old Alamarri ruins in Amaranthine." He grinned at Artie. "You remember those."

Artemis was sure he was about to say something intelligent, but Theron's words and grin caught him up short. He sputtered and cleared his throat, trying to maintain a sense of dignity through his blushing. "I... yes. I remember."

Fenris shot his husband an amused look. "So how will this work, then?" he asked, voicing the question Artemis had meant to ask. "We came here expecting to rebuild elven ruins. Are we to rebuild these Alamarri ruins, instead? Will that fulfill our contract? Are we equipped to do so?"

Natia shrugged. "Stone is stone, and I doubt anyone but us would know the difference either way." She walked around, occasionally frowning at a bit of stonework and shaking her head in exasperation.

"Does it even say 'elven' ruins anywhere in the contract?" Gilroy asked, crouching down next to a small cluster of yellow flowers he hadn't seen growing anywhere in Kirkwall -- they certainly hadn't had them in the Gallows. "This is madcap, isn't it?"

"Mad as a miner," Natia agreed, nodding, "just like us."

"No, I mean this plant." Gilroy pointed, rolling his eyes in Sheena's direction.

Murray leaned over his shoulder. "Just looks like weird daisies to me."

"And that's why you don't get to make potions." Gilroy sighed and examined the plant again. "See, the leaves, here, look like those illustrations in the Botanical Compendium. I bet it is. In which case, nobody eat that."

A cluster of tiny black berries dropped into Gilroy's lap. "No, eat this instead." Maren grinned down at the mages beneath her, from where she lay across a tree branch. "Elderberries."

Artemis plucked up an elderberry on his way by to stand next to Theron, popping it into his mouth as he considered the ruins before him, relics of a life and an age he would never know. This was unexpected certainly -- and he hated unexpected -- but it should not be a problem.

"I'm not worried," Artie said. "You always did know the best use for Alamarri ruins."

That brought a grin back to Theron's face.

"I don't care what ruins they are," muttered Junar, Artemis's least favourite elf. "I'm just glad to be around trees again. I don't have to look at the sky!" He chewed as he talked, revealing teeth dyed with elderberry juice.

"And yet, I still have to look at you," Artie drawled.

Junar scowled. "Shut up, Lord Halla."

"Make me."

"I'd never stand that close to you, but I'm sure Hahren Halla-fucker over there would be glad to put your mouth to a better use," Junar shot back, licking his lip and leaving a purplish trail.

"That is not a halla! That is a very attractive shemlen!" Theron insisted. "Unless you're going to tell me he's blessed by Ghilan'nain, halla don't usually carry on entire conversations! Back me up here, Maren!"

"Well, I wouldn't start a herd with him! If I could, I wouldn't have had to come all the way down here, would I?" Maren laughed.

"Halla," Junar said, pointing at Artemis. "Fucker." He pointed to Theron.

Junar managed one more smirk at Artemis's glare and clenched fists before he felt the weight of magic slam into his chest, shoving him back and off his feet as though he weighed no more than a doll.

"Idiot," Artemis said, mimicking Junar's voice and pointing in his direction -- or, rather, pointing at where he had been before he had passed between trees and over the small cliff Artie did not know was there. "Oh, shit."

Junar shrieked and flailed as he fell... into the waiting arms of Natia, who had climbed below to check the foundations. Eyes still scrunched shut, Junar didn't see her grinning down at him, nor the concerned faces peeking down from the top of the cliff.

"You fly this way often, handsome?" Natia asked the elf in her arms, swinging him around to a spot a little closer to the cliff wall than the drop off, below.

"I don't fly!" Junar roared, shoulders trembling, as he tried to figure out where he'd landed, without opening his eyes.

"Well, you sure were flying this time!" Natia laughed easily, and tipped Junar so he could put his feet on the ground. "And you're light as a bird. You sure you don't fly? Could've fooled me."

"Elves do not fly," Junar sputtered, all the colour run out of his face, as he eased himself out of the dwarf's grip. After a moment, he leaned dizzily on her anyway. "Where are we?" he finally asked, opening his eyes and regretting it.

Natia looked at him as though she wondered if he had hit his head. "Down from there," she said, pointing up at where Theron waved and Artemis offered him a less friendly gesture. "And up from there." She pointed down at the rest of the drop, which tapered at the end into more of a roll. 

The fall wouldn't have killed him unless he had landed in a particularly ugly way, but Junar still clung to her tightly as he made the mistake of looking where she pointed. Natia was more than content to prop him up.

"We might have a structural problem, just there," Natia called up to Theron, pointing behind her, where the cliff drop was not so steep. "The ground is weak, and the rock is sliding. Explains the weird tilt of the buildling up there." She didn't have a name for what the building was, had no frame of reference, but pointing worked just as well.

"Can you -- don't be stupid, Theron. Can _the mages_ fix it without turning the settlement into rubble?" Theron called down, well aware of what an ill-placed earthquake could do.

"It's some fiddly shit," Natia warned. "Still, I bet they could. Stone, not force, you hear me, up there?"

"Murray can handle it!" Sheena called down from somewhere beyond the edge of the cliff.

"You could ask me, you know!" Murray complained.

"Hey, Murray?" Natia called up, with an amused smirk at Junar. "Can you handle it?"

"Yeah, no problem." Murray appeared at the edge of the cliff. "Do you guys want some stairs, while I'm standing here? You look like you need stairs, or he does, anyway."

"Sure, sure," Natia called back. "Could you give us some of them fancy Orlesian stairs with the swirly banisters and shit?"

"Should I throw in some decorative sculptures while I'm at it?" Murray asked.

"I thought we were restoring some Alamarri work?" Artemis reminded them as he ducked back out of Natia's sight. "Please no Orlesian-style nudes."

"Alamarri-style nudes, then," Natia shouted back. "Big ones!" Junar didn't know what to make of the giant grin she sent his way.

"Not what I meant," came Artie's exasperated voice over the edge of the cliff.

"Would you prefer halla?" Junar said, not quite regaining his voice enough to shout but trying to scrape his dignity back together.

Artemis's face reappeared, his blue eyes narrowed to slits. "Do you want me to shove you down the rest of the way?"

"Unstable rock," Junar replied, regaining some of his bluster and managing a smarmy grin. "You wouldn't want to do that."

Artemis made a show of looking around him at the ruins. "Not all of it is unstable," he said ominously before disappearing again.


	130. Chapter 130

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theron, Fenris, and Artemis take a little time to themselves. (Chapter full of smut.)

Theron poked Artemis in the ribs, nudging him into one of the long, dark passages that led deeper into the largest building -- literally deeper, since the ones that hadn't collapsed ended in stairs. "We're not in town, any more. And we're not on a boat. We don't have to worry about anyone hearing you. Not with stone this thick... You think you can go a few without dropping the ceiling on us?"

A dull pop sounded from the back of the passage, and Fenris swore at something in the dark. "I brought a celebratory bottle. We haven't gotten strangled by the peasants, yet. Unfortunately, I've dropped the cork... somewhere..."

"I guess we're finishing the bottle." Theron grinned in the last wisp of light that spilled in from the fires the rest of their team had set up in the entry.

Artemis held out his hand towards Fenris and waggled his fingers for the wine bottle. He had the presence of mind to hand the bottle off to Theron after a few long sips, though the desire to keep drinking was an inch he never could quite scratch. "A bottle of wine, a pair of handsome elves, and the opportunity to make bad jokes about dark tunnels... what more could a man ask for?"

"Besides a bed, you mean?" Fenris teased, his voice a pleasing rumble that always went straight to the base of Artie's spine. Fenris wrapped an arm around his husband's waist and nuzzled the back of his ear and the corner of his jaw.

"That is because we have not yet shown you the proper use of Alamarri ruins," Theron replied, his grin wide enough to reflect the distant firelight.

"I've been shown the proper use, as you put it, of elven ruins. This can't be that different." Fenris stood on his toes and shot Theron a wry look over Artemis's shoulder.

"And you're pretty familiar with the proper use of the prettiest shemlen I've ever laid eyes on." Theron shoved a hand between Artemis's thighs and squeezed, gently. "I've seen a lot of shemlen. A whole city of them and more. But, this one is still the best."

"You have a good eye." Fenris sounded amused as he nibbled at the side of Artemis's neck. "But, you should never have let him slip away, however pleased I may be that you did." His hands unfastened Artemis's belt, rucking up the tunic until he could touch skin.

Artemis' laugh came out soft and breathless, and Fenris could feel his stomach muscles moving with it. "I must say, it has worked out for me, so far." He leaned back against Fenris even as he pushed forward into Theron's hand. He was certain these elves would be the death of him, and he would die content.

Theron grinned, loosening the ties of Artie's pants. "I can't say I have too many complaints at the moment, either." He took another deep gulp of wine before setting it down, his other hand never leaving Artie as he moved in for a kiss. As Theron nibbled his lip, Fenris nibbled his ear, and Artemis shivered between them.

Fenris stepped back just far enough to strip Artemis of his shirt, reflexively folding it before he set that and the belt aside on a fallen stone. "I wonder if you know how lucky you are, Theron," he remarked, settling his hands on Artemis's hips as Theron loosened the laces and Artie's trousers began their slow slide down.

"After Denerim? I could sing you a song about how lucky I am, but it would take three days, and every third verse would have earthquakes." Theron chuckled and nuzzled Artemis's neck, nibbling under his chin. He bit like he meant to choke, but then drew back. "Maybe your hand, Fenris. I don't think we want to bring him back with teeth marks all over him. Natia might say something."

"I might say something," Fenris protested, dragging his fingertips along Artemis's chest, before settling the hand across Artie's collarbone. "Do not bruise my husband."

Artemis wouldn't mind the bruises, but he also didn't mind the way Fenris sounded in his ear just then, protective under the teasing. "Despite what my brother might say, I am not a delicate mageflower," he said anyway, breath hitching when Fenris's fingers glowed, the tips just barely tracing his collarbone under the skin. "But I am the only one in any state of undress, and that is terribly unfair."

It only became more unfair when Fenris's fingers left his collarbone to trace up his neck, and Theron chuckled at the desperate way Artie squirmed.

"Oh, I can think of a few ways we can make this even more unfair," Theron said with a wink at Fenris. He knelt to rid Artie of his boots and the trousers that had pooled at his ankles, pausing to nip at the jut of a hipbone.

"Are you sure that's safe?" Fenris asked, running his own foot across the floor, checking for anything sharp. He might not wear boots, himself, but he couldn't remember ever having worn them, unlike Artemis who'd spent some of the money from the Deep Roads expedition on new boots almost immediately. It was odd that he remembered, but he'd been fascinated by the weird, drunk mage he'd eventually married, right from the start.

"I haven't knelt on anything I regret, yet, so probably. The worst thing you're going to step on in here's most likely a bug, and I haven't knelt on any of those, either." Theron tossed the boots toward Artemis's folded tunic and then gathered the trousers to toss them, only to have those grabbed by Fenris as soon as they left his hand.

"They'll wrinkle," Fenris grumbled, as Theron buried his face in Artemis's crotch.

Between nuzzles and nibbles, Theron snorted. "He's never minded _me_ tossing his clothing around, at times like these."

"I minded a little," Artie said around a gasp as he sank his fingers into Theron's hair, gently massaging his scalp. "I minded in the morning." A part of him itched to check that Fenris had folded them _correctly_ , but he knew Fenris had. He always did.

Theron hummed, doing something with his tongue that Artemis was sure was illegal in Nevarra. "The way I see it, the only time to mind trousers is when they are in your way."

"Then I am minding your trousers very much right now," Artie said, toes digging into the ground to keep him from squirming. "Yours too, Fenris."

"You do frequently find them bothersome," Fenris teased, pressing his trouser-clad hips into Artemis.

"Hmm." Theron cleared his throat like he did before starting a long story. "I don't know if I want to lie down on this floor. It's safe enough, but I don't think there's enough space between the wreckage."

Fenris picked up on the too-clear enunciation, immediately. "Ah, you're right. I'm sure there's not room for that. But, I think I saw a smooth stone behind me."

"And we could bend him over that," Theron finished, as though the idea were just coming to him. "I like the way you think." He stood, crowding Artemis back toward Fenris, who was quick to drag his husband deeper into the passage.

Fenris lit the lyrium along one arm, for light, and the dim blue glow painted the rubble at the back of the hall in soft shadow, as he turned Artemis to face it. "Would you be comfortable?" he asked, remembering that scene in the Deep Roads with Anders and that other Warden. Nearly half the thoughts in his head had been about scraped knees.

"I'm sure I will manage," Artemis said, and Fenris heard more than saw his smile. Scraped knees were not high on his list of concerns just yet, but then Fenris and Theron had always been excellent distractions.

"Better than bringing a torch," Theron muttered, eyeing the glowing lines down Fenris's arm.

"Agreed," Artemis teased. "Fenris is much sexier than a torch." Artie ran his fingers along those glowing lines, the blue light illuminating his grin, as well as other favourable parts of his body as he turned back to the smooth stone they had such plans for.

Theron picked up Artemis's belt and tossed it to Fenris, as he waited for Artemis to get comfortable. Whatever it looked like, Artemis was always in control -- not that either of them were going to tell him that. Theron had picked up, over the years, that Artemis wanted someone _else_ in control, so there was nothing good to come from ruining that illusion. Still, there was equally no sense in everyone's favourite earthquake waiting to happen being uncomfortable, or at least not more uncomfortable than he wanted to be.

Fenris shot Theron a curious look, immediately understanding the offer. If he were to toss it back, Theron would be at the front, while he had Artemis from behind.

Theron shrugged and held out his hand. He'd take it, if Fenris didn't want to, but Fenris shook his head, eyes trailing over Artemis's slender, long limbs.

Fenris skirted the stone to stand in front of Artemis, who was set out like an offering on his hands and knees. Artemis looked up at him with a smile that was small and fond and trusting, until he saw the belt in Fenris's hand and shivered in anticipation.

"You have big plans for me, I see," Artie said as Fenris looped the belt around his neck and locked it in place, loose enough that Artie would have to pull to feel the pressure.

He nearly jumped at the feel of fingers on his ass, and he turned his head to glance back at Theron, only to be held in place by the belt.

Theron had unlaced his trousers and nudged them down just enough. Stroking himself slowly, he sank to his knees behind Artemis, caressing that perfect, shapely ass with his other hand. "I just want to remind you how incredibly happy I am that you grew up to be even better looking than I remember you being. And I have a very good memory."

Something about that always gave Fenris pause -- Theron had come back for Artemis, years later; had apparently chased him across half of Ferelden, but in the end Artemis had chosen to marry him, not Theron, and he'd never been sure that wasn't because Theron was already married. But, that was it, he supposed. Theron was married, and so was he, and he knew he could put a stop to this any time he wanted. But, he didn't want to, he thought, baring himself just out of reach of Artemis's lips. He wanted to watch Artemis strain toward him, even with Theron inside him. That was all the proof he needed, and he could have it any time he wanted.

Theron had found some sort of oil somewhere in his endless pockets and pouches of scrolls and charcoal and ink, and slicking it over his fingers, he reached between Artemis's legs, first, sliding his hand over that big, shemlen knob. "Don't suppose I should tease you too long," he joked. "Someone might decide to come back and check on us."

Their companions were smart enough not to come looking for the three of them while they were down here, but just the thought of being caught like this, completely bare and at the mercy of these two, made Artemis squirm against Theron's hand, the dark hiding the flush on his cheeks. Of course, that made him think of the time he actually _had_ been caught while between the two of them, and the memory was less pleasant than the idea.

"Please," Artemis murmured, unsure if he was begging the teasing hands behind him or the knob in front of him just out of reach. He strained against the belt, as much to feel the pressure on his throat as to try to coax his husband closer.

Fenris's knob twitched at the warm breaths ghosting across that lyrium-lined skin. "You can reach," he assured Artemis. "Put out your tongue."

The teasing hands turned serious as Theron's fingers slicked and stretched Artemis. Not much, it never took much, and Theron slid himself in with a low groan. " _Artemis_ ," he moaned, and in that instant, the pleasure blotted out his better sense, and the word came out in the way he reserved for telling tales, echoing off the walls around them.

He clapped a clean hand over his mouth and snorted, shooting Fenris an apologetic look. "Well, I don't suppose they'd come looking after that," he hissed.

"Are you sure that wouldn't make us more enticing?" Fenris drawled, finally leaning in the extra inch, to put himself better in Artemis's reach, just to give Artemis something other than Theron's untimely slip to think about.

Fenris's knob stoppered anything Artemis would have said, and he settled for a disgruntled hum around the tip before settling in to enjoy the taste of lyrium on his tongue. Then Fenris's knob was stoppering more pleasant sounds as Theron took up a steady rhythm behind him. Later. He could be embarrassed later.


	131. Chapter 131

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A game of Diamondback, by the fire, from which everyone can hear what's going on down that side passage.

Back outside in the firelight, Natia was dealing out a worn set of cards and explaining her Diamondback house rules to Junar, who only seemed more confused the more she talked.

"That's half the point," Murray had teased. "She keeps you off-balance so she can win."

Natia found that the mages were content to ignore the sounds echoing back to them from the tunnels, while Junar just seemed to grow more irritated as the round progressed. 

"You know, I knew it with those three," Gilroy finally said, picking up his mug from where he'd left it beside the fire.

"You and everyone else," Sheena retorted. "It's not like Theron can keep his mouth shut."

"We're all just lucky he hasn't started singing some epic tale about his pet fuck-halla," Junar muttered, rearranging his hand for the seventeenth time. "He does that, you know. Turns every stupid thing into a tale for the ages." He sat up to do his best Theron impression. "Well, you never know, do you, what's going to matter, later!" He slouched and tossed another pebble into the pot before he turned a card. "I promise, you moon-mad halla-fucker, nobody is ever going to give a pheasant's fart how many geese the hunters brought back on the day the moons crossed, last month, or what Ilen was working on nineteen days past."

"He remembers all that?" Murray sounded a bit amazed.

"I think he remembers every moment of every day back to when he was too small to walk," Maren complained, rubbing her face and looking at Junar's cards, over his shoulder. "Only, it didn't make him an old man, like Paivel. Instead it turned him into a complete fuckabout, who, as you've noticed, can't shut up. There's too much in his head and it all runs out his mouth like a fountain. Usually, he's quieter than this, though. We don't usually have to hear this part..."

Natia tossed a glance back at the tunnel and shook her head in amusement. "They really chose the wrong spot for it if they were trying to be discrete." She had to wonder if they had done that on purpose or if they really were that oblivious. _Elves_. "Stone echoes. And in that tunnel?" She laughed. "It bounces. We might as well be sitting right next to them."

Junar's face twisted, one ear twitching. "Ew," he said decisively, turning over one of his cards as though it disgusted him. After a minute of trying not to listen, Junar muttered, "He even sounds like a halla."

"I assure you that is not the sounds that hallas make," Maren said as though the thought pained her.

"I'm sure you could demonstrate a more appropriate place in these ruins to try something like that. With a little help, of course. Or, you know, you could try any of the other three ... probably that one's going to have the best sound. It's not collapsed in the back." Natia pointed to a different hall. "And you could show them how loud they really are. With your choice of exciting noises, of course." Natia flipped her second card and glanced around the fire. Not too bad, yet, she didn't think, but she couldn't see Sheena's other card.

Murray turned his second card and swore loudly. "Good thing we're only playing for rocks."

Junar shook his head. "It's these dwarf rules. And I think she keeps saying weird shit so we won't notice her pulling out extra cards."

"If you really think I've got extra cards, you're welcome to search me, hunter." Natia smiled wickedly at Junar. She wasn't usually into elves -- they weren't broad and hairy -- but this one had some charms she'd be willing to investigate.

Frowning down at his losing cards, it took Junar a moment to process those words with that tone and to look up and see that wicked grin. "Uh..." he said, and Natia was tempted to tell him he looked like a frightened halla, with his eyes wide like that.

Murray and Sheena exchanged smirks. "Yeah," said Sheena, "you can search her in one of those... more acoustically favourable tunnels."

If Natia's grin had been wicked, Sheena's was outright diabolical.

Junar swallowed, fidgeting with his cards again. "I think I'll stick with losing with dignity, for right now."

"Your loss, all right," Natia said in a singsong voice. Then Sheena turned over her other card, and Natia cursed. "Again? And you all accuse _me_ of cheating..."

* * *

Two elves returned to the fire, leading a shaky and rumpled looking shemlen between them, and all three looked about as smug as one might expect, after what had been heard around the fire. As Theron stepped aside so Fenris could help Artemis sit, Junar put down the deck.

"Just so you know, that hallway is cursed or something and every one of us got to hear how much you love cramming your mi'nehn into that halla, and I didn't ever need to know what a halla in heat sounded like, so thanks for that."

"I keep telling you those aren't halla noises!" Maren groaned, picking up the cards and shuffling them, absently. "Halla sound absolutely nothing like that. That is a shemlen; note the round ears and the lack of horns."

"Oh, he's horny enough for all of us." Junar snorted.

Artemis's skin ran cold and then hot as Junar's words sank in. He knew they had to have heard something -- and by something, he meant 'Theron' -- but... all of it?

"I am not a halla," Artie said once he had gotten his mouth working again. Because that was the easier offence to address.

Junar barked out a laugh. "That might be more convincing when you're not letting a pair of elves ride you."

Junar was not surprised when the air buzzed with magic, but he didn't expect the hand that grabbed him by the back of the collar and hauled him, scrabbling, to his feet. He was almost impressed. He didn't think the skinny shemlen could lift a stick.

"Do I need to push you off another cliff?" he asked, as though the last time had been on purpose.

"I don't think you're going to find one, in here," Junar shot back, turning to the side and hooking an arm around Artemis's to break the grip, shoving the shemlen back, though surprisingly, not into a fall. Artemis barely even wobbled.

"Do not strike my husband." Fenris's voice was calm, but cold.

"He started it!" Junar protested.

"You deserved it," Fenris replied, unblinking.

"Wait, did you say 'horny'? Did you get that line from my wife?" Theron asked, after a moment's contemplation. He wasn't that worried about Artemis. At the worst, he might have to rescue Junar, but he thought Natia might beat him to it, after last time.

"No, your wife got it from me," Junar snapped, an unpleasant smile parting his lips as he looked at Theron. "You know what else your wife got from me?" He rolled his hips suggestively.

"Hopefully, not a disease, since Anders has left us. I do hope you went to the clinic in the city for that." Fenris sounded dryly amused.

"And on that note, I _don't_ have a disease! And I'm sure you've all discovered that I'm incredible in bed, or in the nearest convenient dim passageway, and you're all missing out!" Theron stepped forward, grinning, his arms spread in invitation.

"That is... not how Merrill tells it," Maren remarked, quietly, eyes still on the cards.

Theron's arms slumped back to his sides. "I was _fourteen_!" he protested. "That doesn't count!"

"All you have proven," Junar said, ignoring the glare Artemis sent his way, "is that you need someone to finish what you start." He indicated Fenris with a tip of his head.

"Well," said Theron, not only unbothered by the remark but grinning, "clearly you did not hear _everything_ , if you think that is what happened. Allow me to recount for you in detail..."

He was met with a chorus of "NO"s and had to raise his arms against the cards and pebbles being thrown his way.


	132. Chapter 132

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Anton have lunch with Varric, who's just gotten a letter from an old friend.

From time to time, Anton managed to convince his husband to join him in Varric's gardens, instead of their own. It wasn't that they'd gone to enjoy the furniture, but that it was an excellent excuse to drag Varric out of his basement office and pour a few drinks down him. This time, though, Varric wasn't looking quite himself, as he wordlessly shoved a fistful of rolled pages into Anton's hand.

"Looking a little grim, there," Anton pointed out, as he and Cullen followed Varric through the gardens. "Rumours a little too close to home, this month? Someone send in something for Page Six featuring you and Meredith's reanimated red lyrium statue?"

"If that's it, he's taking it well," Cullen joked. "I don't think I'd look half as well."

"It's something... Do you know how many people are out here, that you just can't hear? Because that number is more than you'd think, and I'm not saying a word until I'm sitting down with a drink in my hand. Another drink. Don't they make anything stronger than rum in this town?" Varric shook his head and took another turn into the bit of garden that sat up against a windowless corner of the house. "In other news, somebody's decided you're banging the Seneschal."

"Me?" Anton looked utterly horrified. " _Bran_? Maker, now you've made me think of it. If you're having another drink, I'm going to have to catch up."

Cullen sputtered, behind him, continuing to look poleaxed, even as Anton took a seat.

"Shall I take that as a 'no', then? It's a pretty persistent rumour. There's a submission for Page Six and everything. More than one, actually. Don't worry, I'll pick one that makes you look good."

"Are there ones that make me look bad? There's the real scandal. And if you don't believe me, I'm sure Bran's shrieking once he finds out will let everyone know that, no, we are not a thing."

That prompted an amused snort from Varric, where Anton had expected a barking laugh. Varric was always good for laughing at his jokes, even when they weren't funny.

Varric poured drinks for Anton and Cullen and seemed on the cusp of drinking straight from the bottle when he remembered his manners and poured himself a glass as well. Anton and Cullen exchanged glances, but Anton only had a shrug to offer his husband.

"So what are we drinking to?" Cullen asked, sliding his glass in front of him.

Varric paused to consider that, drink already halfway to his lips, when he huffed a laugh and said, "Well, to Bianca, I guess."

Anton looked to both sides of the table. "Finally break your crossbow?" he guessed, not seeing the thing.

"No, not that Bianca. The other Bianca." Varric took a drink, set the glass down, and leaned into his hands, over it.

"Other... Bianca..." Anton looked concerned, and Cullen took his cue from that. Anton had always known Varric a little better, and for reasons he preferred not to consider too closely.

"Another crossbow, or your dead wife?" Cullen guessed.

"Oh, no. Very much alive. She's up for Paragon." Varric tried to laugh and it came out weak and watery. He covered it with another drink.

"Weren't you born on the surface? I mean, here in Kirkwall?" Cullen asked, studying the pattern of light in his glass. The headaches were getting worse, but he hoped they'd be over, before Anton noticed. He hoped he'd be all right by the time he got back from Ferelden. Maybe even before he went. "How did you meet a Paragon?"

"She's not one. Yet. It's a big deal that she might be, though." Varric took another drink. "First time a surfacer's ever been nominated, and the Assembly doesn't know what to do with it. She's a better smith than Branka -- or at least that's what I hear -- so she deserves it, but..."

"But... you're drinking with us and not with her?" Cullen guessed again. From the way Varric's face twisted into something that wasn't quite convincing enough to be a smile, Cullen suspected he had hit the mark more closely than Varric would admit.

"Now, why would I want to be anywhere else?" Varric asked, gesturing around him at the gardens, gesturing at his drinking companions. "It's a lovely day, and Kirkwall isn't on fire -- and thanks for that, Anton. I mean, it's nice not to see the peasantry running and screaming, but I had a good amount of coin riding on you setting things at least a little bit on fire by now."

Anton wondered if he should be offended by that, but he just shrugged. "I can light a councilman on fire, if you like."

"No," Cullen was saying before Anton even finished speaking.

"Oh, come on, who would miss an Orlesian or two. Maybe de Launcet, just to keep things interesting!" Anton grinned wickedly at his husband.

"De Launcet's not on the Council," Cullen reminded him. "For which I _am_ thankful." He eyed Varric, somewhat sympathetically. "You never did answer the question. Who was she, before?"

"Not my wife," Varric said quickly. "Might've been, though. Just... never enough time, never enough money. And her parents didn't like me, so they married her to some other guy, for the prestige. What do I know? I hear from her every few years."

"At least you hear from her," Cullen said, thinking back to Kinloch Hold. "I used to know a girl, stop me if I've told you this one --"

"Commander Cullen knew a _girl_? Stop the presses! When was this?" Varric cackled, trying to turn the attention away from himself. "Does your husband know? Did Meredith have your head examined to make sure you weren't seeing things?"

"Ha, ha," Cullen said, rolling his eyes. "This was before I met Meredith -- and I love that you're implying that Meredith wasn't a girl."

"She wasn't," Anton said into his glass. "She was a raging dick, cursed with the ability to speak and wave a sword around."

Cullen didn't linger on that image. "Anyway. Back in Kinloch Hold I knew a girl, who I thought -- and still think -- was the most beautiful girl in Thedas."

Varric sat back, rolling his glass in his hand. "And?" he prompted.

"And I married her cousin." Cullen pointed his thumb at Anton. "Who bears a rather startling resemblance to her, I might add."

Anton raised his rum in salute. "So we know she actually _was_ very attractive."

Varric's brow smoothed over in understanding. "Ah, _that_ girl," he said, and it was odd, calling the Hero of Ferelden that.

"But, after the Blight, she was gone -- a hero, they said. She could be trusted to behave in polite company because she was a hero. And the records in the tower were a mess. I'm still not sure how many actually died -- we didn't find bodies for all of them, but they were declared dead all the same. And apparently, so was I, somewhere between Greagoir and Hadley. Our old commander forgot to leave a note, I guess. They told her I was dead." Cullen laughed, nervously, and rubbed the back of his neck, before taking another drink. "I didn't hear from her again until ... what was that, the middle of thirty-four?" He glanced at Anton.

"I still think Anders should have punched you," Anton teased, nudging his husband's leg, under the table. "You called him an apostate! And you did it in front of my two brothers, who actually were apostates, at the time!"

"One of them technically still is, if he hasn't gone to Tevinter, and don't tell me. I'm still Knight-Commander, and I might actually have to _do_ something. As it stands, I can pretend he's gone somewhere that magic's legal." Cullen stretched his neck. "Point is, you know she's not dead. She knows you're not dead. Whatever happened between you, she's still talking to you."

"She's rubbing my face in it," Varric muttered, and even as he said it, he knew it wasn't really true. She just wanted him to be as excited for her as she was. "I don't know. She's talking about some super secret project with the Wardens, and how she'll be made Paragon, for sure, if she can get it worked out before the vote. Asked me about that horrible venture of my brother's, but I'm going to have to tell her it's not safe there. And then I'm going to have to live with knowing I told her that and she did it anyway, and no matter what happens, I'm not going to hear about it for years, if I ever do."

Anton frowned, pausing to fill Varric's glass. "Well. If she's doing something with the Wardens, Cullen knows a girl." He tossed a grin at his husband. "Super secret or not, I'm sure we can learn more about it if Cullen asks nicely. Maybe convince Solona to keep an eye on her, try to keep her out of trouble."

The flat look Varric gave him was answer enough. "She's already a Paragon at getting herself into trouble," he said. He tipped his head back, considering. "Kind of like you Hawkes. Guess I just attract that type."

Anton's suggestive wink startled a dirty laugh out of Varric, a real one, which it pleased Anton to hear.


	133. Chapter 133

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deeper into the ruins, stranger things await. Theron finds something Solona didn't.

Sheena and Natia led them deeper into the ruins, with Natia talking Sheena through not just moving fallen blocks out of the way, but putting them back into the walls. Murray followed close behind, shaping the stone and smoothing away the fractures. The team had decided to start with just one passage, in particular, and work their way through the whole building, before they moved on to another, and this passage, Natia thought, ended in a blocked staircase.

She'd been right, of course, and at the bottom of the stairs, the three of them sat down to rest, while Theron led the way into the lower floor. 

"Stairs down into a hallway full of... Sylaise? That one's definitely an elf, look at the face!" He pointed to a statue of a woman holding a burning bowl. "I'm really pretty sure that's Sylaise, though I've never seen this representation before. This other one's too broken for me to tell, and I'm not familiar with the pose..."

"I've seen statues of Andraste like this, but Natia says this place is older than Andraste," Gilroy pointed out, examining one of the headless statues. "But, this isn't all elf stuff, we said, right? So..."

"The stories say Andraste was Alamarri," Fenris pointed out. "Perhaps it is a popular pose in Alamarri statuary."

"Wouldn't know," Gilroy said, with a shrug. "Kirkwall all the way."

"I've seen the statues around the old settlements, here in the forest, all the way up to Amaranthine, and I think you're right. I think I've seen these in--" Theron stopped short, remembering where he'd seen them, before. The flickers of undying flame, and broken memories at strange angles... "Falon'din," he said, after a few breaths. "Somewhere in here, I bet we'll find an obvious Falon'din, or maybe Mythal. Probably both."

Looking a bit grey, he leaned against the wall, between statues, and tipped his head back, trying to remember what had been in that place, before he and Tamlen had started running. Or even later, with Merrill and Fenarel along, though he hadn't been looking at the statues, then -- he could still hear his own voice echoing through those halls, calling and swearing, and that old terror and guilt made him sweat, even now. 

"There's another place like this -- not this one, but further up the wood, between here and Denerim, I think. You put me in Denerim, I could find it without a map. I can find all the camps around here, but I don't even know where we are, in this place. I've never seen this part of the forest. I'd have to get a road, before I knew how to get back to that one. Or at least another place I actually know. But, this, with the sword, and another with a shield... I saw them, there. There's old stories that say before Tevinter, there were humans who were friendly with the empire. That we lived together in peace, but nobody knows where. I always assumed it was just a legend. There's so many other things that are true, that we can prove happened, because the places are still standing on the plains of Orlais -- which didn't used to be plains, and I feel like I should point that out -- and there's stories in the stones and the trees that show us the same things that we've been saying for generations. But, that's the Dales. That's thousands of years later than this."

"And what makes you think these humans, that built this place, are friends?" Fenris asked, running a hand along one statue's sword.

"Because you don't display the gods of your slaves, in public buildings, and there's no doubt that's what this is." Theron slid down the wall, cracked his elbows on his knees, and ran both hands through his hair. "I didn't believe it when Tamlen said it, either, Ghilan'nain guide him. I thought he was putting me on, because it was just this one ratty statue. It looked like a conqueror's prize or something. And he kept trying to convince me it was proof. And then through the next door was that eluvian. I've never seen glass that big before or again. And I have to wonder, now, all these years later, if there wasn't some meaning I missed."

“Well, maybe this time you can find out,” Artemis offered. He didn’t know much about Alamarri sculptures, but he was a little envious at the display of skill involved. Sure, the poses were stock, the figures wearing the same expressions, but he had yet to craft anything near to the delicateness of their faces. “And wouldn’t that be a fine story to bring back to Sundermount?”

“Merrill would be intrigued,” Fenris agreed. “Perhaps even intrigued enough to sit through the whole of one your epics.”

Theron grinned, and Artemis was pleased to see that grin loosen the tightness around his eyes. Thoughts of Tamlen often put that strained look on his face.

"Just try not to use so many references to earthquakes in _that_ poem, please," Artie muttered, padding over rubble to peer down the hall, light spilling over him in bright patches as he passed under a hole in the ceiling.

"Not _so_ many!" Theron chuckled, half-heartedly, shoving himself to his feet, again, as he looked back toward the stairs. "I have no idea if there were any sexy Alamarri mages shaking things up, when this place was built. And now--"

"Is he even Alamarri?" Gilroy cocked a thumb at Artemis and raised an eyebrow at Theron.

"Rivaini, I thought. Of course, I also thought Chasind, so ..." Theron shrugged and stuck out his tongue at Artemis, as he swung around the corner and edged down the stairs.

"The Amells are native Kirkwallers, aren't they?" Gilroy asked, glancing at Artemis. "Planasene, maybe? Daefad?"

"Are we going to keep arguing about Earthquake Boy's heritage, or is one of you brave mages going to come save me from whatever weird demons are on the other side of this door?"

Fenris drew his sword. "Demons?"

"I'm guessing, but, judging by the piles of bone and swords we dug up on the way down, we've got death on a massive scale. And probably all at once, or somebody would have cleaned that up." Theron gave Fenris a pointed look. "If it wasn't demons to start with, it's probably demons, now. You remember Sundermount."

"And the Wounded Coast, and the Bone Pit, and every other plot of land anywhere in the approximate vicinity of Kirkwall, yes," Fenris drawled, bracing himself as he gestured for Theron to open the door. " _Demons_ ," he sighed.

"You mean that's not how it is everywhere?" Gilroy asked, his tone only half joking as he readied himself next to Artie by the door.

Theron wrenched open the door instead of replying, and a cluster of reanimated skeletons burst out as though the room were pressurized. Less daunting than demons but just as welcoming.

And the skeletons were greeted in kind. The first, its jaw little more than splinters, lost its skull to a heavy swing of Fenris's sword, the skull bouncing off the teeth of the undead creature behind it. Fenris's grin said that this was no challenge, that he could cut down the group in one, maybe two, more swings, but the rush of power past his shoulder saved him the trouble. The next skeleton cracked into the two behind it, and they in turn cracked into the wall. Centuries of decay had made the bones brittle, and they crumbled where they hit stone.

Gilroy shook his head at Artie as the others peeked over their shoulders. "You could have saved one for me."

Artemis shrugged and patted him on the back. "You can get the next batch."

"Books!" Theron slipped on the shards of bone at his feet, as he squeezed past Fenris and slid into the room before he regained his balance. "Look at this! It's all books! Artemis! Sheena! Come help me re-shelve these!"

"What, not me?" Gilroy asked, watching the elven warrior fail to re-sheathe his sword three times, in a fluster, before kneeling to lift the first book.

"You're great for throwing rocks around, but you've got all the manual dexterity of a nug," Theron pointed out, gently easing open the cover to look at the pages. "It's written in Elvish." His eyes lit up and the excitement in his smile was contagious. "Merrill should be here -- I wonder if they had an eluvian, here, or if the nearest was in the other ruin. I wonder if there are any books about it! Look at this! It's real history, written by people who were there! ... Mythal's tits. I'm going to have to copy these... all of them."

Gilroy grinned. "No you won't. You've got me. Ella taught me how to do it with magic."

Book still in one hand, Theron lunged for Gilroy, grabbing him with the other hand and kissing him firmly on the lips. "Dirthamen bless you to the end of your days and beyond. You're good for something, after all, nug-fingers."

"Hey!" Gilroy laughed. "Is that what you call someone who is doing you a favour?"

"Don't worry," Fenris drawled. "Junar will come up with worse names for you if he finds out Theron kissed you."

Theron paid them no heed and went back to the pile of books, eyes shining as he gingerly peered inside a few, the pages sticky and stiff but no less legible. Next to him, Artie bent to start putting the books back, pausing for a moment to decide what organisation system to use. As he couldn't understand Elvish, he shrugged and organised them by size, taking care to balance each shelf. He itched to dust the shelves first and clear out the dirt, but one thing at a time.

The others milled about as they worked, kicking aside old bones and rubble to unearth the room's other treasures. Fenris followed the line of bookshelves, peering around them to find another space just behind them. The roof was a mess, a tree bough curving in and back out of the room between bits of crumbling stone. Craggy bits of sunlight illuminated what looked to be an altar.

"Theron," Fenris called, unsurprised when Theron turned his head but did not take his eyes off the open book in his hand. " _Theron_." 

"Hm?" When Theron finally lifted his head, Fenris tipped his in the direction of the altar, still out of Theron's line of sight.

Theron stepped to the side, to get a look. "Well, that looks important. I wonder what it's doing in the middle of a library." He picked his way across the bones and dirt and broken pottery, to crouch down beside it, dusting off the engravings. "I think this used to be painted, but it's mostly worn off, now," he noted, looking around the room. "No hands, shield... I don't recognise these figures and the statues aren't helping. Alamarri, maybe? It's really badly damaged. It might just be something to put books on, like that other stand, in the corner."

"Perhaps," Fenris allowed, sounding mostly unconvinced.

"You know what I heard, in town?" Gilroy said, after a moment. "I heard this ruin was recovered when the Hero of Ferelden came to fight the werewolves that lived in it."

"Werewolves?" Sheena rolled her eyes, from where she was carefully uncovering more tomes from a pile of dirt. "It's the Dragon Age. There aren't still any werewolves, even in Ferelden."

"Well, that's not what they say in Gwaren." Gilroy huffed. "But, what I mean is, maybe it doesn't belong in here. Maybe the werewolves moved it."

"That makes less sense, not more," Fenris muttered, as Theron crossed the room to set the book he'd been holding on an ancient metal stand.

"How much do you want to bet there's more books in this box?" Theron joked, crouching down to get a better look at a damaged wooden chest that looked like it had been thrown against the stand and the wall. Wedged between the side of the chest and the dirt behind it, he spotted something silvery. "Hey, I think I found some old jewellery! Maybe it'll tell us something about our librarians."

"Why would you store your jewellery in a room full of books?" Artemis muttered. "That makes no organisational sense..." He trailed off, watching the eager look on Theron's face shift to something alarmed. Or perhaps awed. He held stone-still, staring down at whatever was in his hand. "Theron?"

Fenris's fingers flexed, ready to reach for his sword, but then Theron sucked in a breath as though coming up for air. Wide-eyed, he stared at them while hardly seeing them and held up the gem in his hand, glowing faintly in his grasp. Fenris's markings flickered in response to the magic.

"It's a phylactery," Theron said, his words more breath than sound, and that was definitely awe in his voice.

Sheena and Gilroy exchanged glances. "What, like the templars make?" Sheena asked.

But Theron was no longer listening, immersed again in the images the gem was sending him. The halls of this place, as they once were, solid stone and brightly painted. Humans leaving offerings before a mural Theron was reasonably certain was Mythal on a dragon. Elves laying offerings at the foot of tombs that weren't tombs, but became them as the figures inside never rose and the bodies fell to decomposition. Whatever had gone on, while this place lived, the elves here had still believed in Uthenera -- that their elders could still achieve the deathless sleep. There were legends that spoke of the people still being immortal, of them sleeping for centuries, but even on Sundermount, those bodies had eventually been buried, when they decayed. No Dalish believed Uthenera was still possible, even if it had been, once, so this dated the place, as he'd expected, to a time before the Dales.

"Who killed this place?" Theron murmured, his eyes still glazed over and locked on the gem. The only reply was a sweeping wave of darkness and terror. Flashes of blood, people running and screaming. An elf kneeling in this library, when the books remained on the shelves, the smell of ancient bindings strong in the air, hands clutching this gem, magic and prayer close and tight, blocking out the horrors beyond. Someone would come let them out. Someone would come and ask. Someone would find them. But, no one did.

"Well, we're here, now!" Theron protested, knowing even as he said it, that he was much too late. The spirit -- if it could be said to be -- had lost too much to become whole again. How long? Who knew? So long that it couldn't remember its name. Couldn't remember anything but the purpose it once had. The image of a faceless mage in silver armour, wielding magic with one hand and a glowing sword in the other rose up in Theron's mind, and he smiled like a child on Summerday. "Dirth'ena ensalin," he breathed. "We have mages -- can you teach it? Do you still know it?"

The spirit seemed confused. Teach it? Why? It was a core point of elven life. Theron was obviously an elf. Shouldn't he know it, or at least have access to a teacher? But, Theron remembered the story of the Dales, just as Paivel had told it before him. "We are the last of the elvhen, and never again will we submit," Theron muttered, and the spirit seemed consumed by grief.

"Will you give me back this piece of our history?" he asked, again.

The spirit pressed against his mind, expressing willingness, but also regret and a despair so deep that Theron could lose himself in it. The spirit didn't belong here, trapped in this gem, away from all it had known, loved, and lost. In return, it asked for freedom, for peace.

Theron considered arguing, aching at the thought of losing this connection to so long ago. The spirit could teach him much, but it had been trapped long enough.

"Show me how to help you," Theron asked and was met with images of an altar, the same one that Fenris had pointed out earlier. Distress bled through the images, as the spirit could not convey to him where said altar was.

"It is not far," Theron assured it.

Distress faded to relief as new images replaced the old, images of Theron placing the gem on the altar. It seemed too simple, but who knew what magic this place held?

"Give what you can remember to my companion, and then I'll do my best to see you returned to the Beyond," Theron promised. "It will be just a moment, while I talk to some people, and then we'll see what we can do for you."

The spirit seemed cautiously grateful, and Theron stood, holding the gem out to the group behind him. "I wish we'd brought Merrill," he admitted. "This used to be an elf, and it's willing to pass on its memories of an ancient path for warrior-mages, but I can't accept the gift -- I'm not a mage. I won't understand. One of you needs to do it."

"What is it asking in return?" Fenris asked. "And how do we know it isn't a demon?"

"We've met demons," Theron replied, with a shrug. "I think I'd have noticed. But, what it wants is for us to release it from the gem, so it can go back to the Fade. Apparently, all we have to do is put the gem on that altar thing over there."

"Sounds like a demon," Fenris decided. "It sounds like such a little favour, but..."

"If it's a demon, it's one demon. Singular. There's how many of us? I'm really not that concerned, even if I might have liked a templar, if it comes to that." Theron offered the gem to Fenris. "I'm fairly sure it's actually just an elf. This poor git used to live here, until ... I don't even know what. Something came and destroyed it. Killed everyone. If that's your demon, that... may still be in here somewhere, if the Hero of Ferelden didn't get to it first." He took a breath. "But, I would really like one of you mages to take this and learn what's being offered. It's called dirth'ena ensalin, 'the knowledge that leads to victory', and I've heard legends that as far on as the Dales, we still practised it, but it's gone, now. It's been gone for centuries. I'm begging you -- someone take this. Someone learn this, so it can be taught, again."

Fenris eyed the gem suspiciously, holding it out as far away from his body as possible. He could sense a presence in there when he looked for it, could sense the spirit's confusion and age-old weariness. It didn't seem demonic, but then he had fallen for a demon's charms before.

"Cormac would have loved this," Artemis murmured, holding his hand out for the gem. "Oh hello," he said when the presence inside made itself known. He held it out for the other mages to inspect, but none of them would touch the gem.

"It's got a dead elf in it," was Murray's excuse.

Artemis considered them, considered his frowning husband and the desperate look on Theron's face as he rolled the gem around in his fingers. "What exactly would you show me?" Artemis asked the gem. 

The spirit fed him images then, images of armoured elves wielding swords and spells at the same time, and Artemis's eyebrows crept towards his hairline. He eyed the sword at Fenris's back and said, "That sounds awesome."

Theron sighed with relief, one hand on his sword as he watched Artemis. He didn't think it was a demon, but there was no reason to be stupid. "I promise I'm not getting your husband possessed," he said to Fenris.

"He's much better about demons than I am," Fenris admitted, quietly. "Still, you'd better be right, or I'm shipping your head back to Paivel in a box."

"And if I'm wrong, I'll have it coming. But I'm not wrong." An excited smile teased at the edges of Theron's mouth. "This is going to be amazing."

"I hope it improves his aim," Fenris retorted, and Sheena choked on a laugh.

Artemis tossed his husband a rude gesture and then turned his attention back to the gem. He closed his eyes, drew in a breath, and asked the spirit to lend him its knowledge. More images flashed through his mind, but instead of the steady trickle of earlier it became a full assault, too quick to make sense of, and when it stopped as suddenly as it came, Artemis was left reeling.

Artie blinked and shook his head. Every part of him was humming, muscles tensed and shaky, remembering someone else's movements. He tried to make sense of what had just happened but found it defied logic.

"Amatus?" Fenris asked.

When Artemis looked around, he realised that the humming wasn't coming from him, or at least not just from him, but from the shimmering shield of energy he had thrown up around himself. He poked it and grinned.

"Whoa! Nice! Arcane or spirit?" Gilroy asked, elbowing Murray and pointing at the shield.

"Neither," Theron replied, instinctively leaning back from the shimmering shield where it stopped just short of him. "You can't assume ancient magic's going to conform to the Chantry's expectations."

Murray shook his head. "No, no, it's not just what it's called, it's what it's made of. Spirit magic calls on spirits and stuff near the veil. Arcane taps straight into the heart of the Fade. That's the real difference. If that's a spirit in that gem, is he still going to be able to do that, when the spirit's gone? Is it going to be harder to do if we're somewhere that the Veil's thicker? And the Veil sucks here. I've said it before and I'm going to say it a lot more. Kirkwall's bad, but this is... I don't even want to know what happened here."

"I kind of know," Theron volunteered, "but not enough. And I do want to know. Something that could do this? What if it's still out there, somewhere? Elves used to be immortal. Dragons, too." He stepped out of the way. "I hate to say it, but... when you're done, just... put that here, on the altar."

The spirit in the gem was already asking him to do the same, nudging Artie with images of the altar, with the feelings of a tiredness bourne only from living too long and a heartbreak from losing all that was once loved. Without the heart to deny the spirit, Artemis nodded, quietly bid it farewell, and set the gem on the altar. There was nothing dramatic, no flashing of light or rumbling of stones--just the gem's inner light fading to nothing.

"Thank you," Theron said, even as he sagged with the weight of the loss.

Artie offered him a wan smile and tried to focus on banishing the shimmering shield. The weight of it reminded him of his brother in a way that was comforting, in a way that made him ache, and when it disappeared, he was sad to see it go.

"But, can you do it again?" Sheena asked, shelving another book she couldn't read. "I mean, did that come from the spirit, or is that something you can do, now?"

Natia leaned in the doorway, watching. Whatever might be in the rest of these ruins, it would have to wait. This room had been ravaged by the trees, but the way the stone had come apart suggested the trees might have been led here, not just left to grow into the ruins. The way the roots bunched over fallen stones suggested magic -- she'd seen it before, on Sundermount. "Hey, Murray? Can I get you to put these blocks back together? Once all the books are out of the way, I'll have Sheena move the dirt, and we'll figure out where these came out of."

Murray nodded, absently, eyes still on Artemis, as he crossed to the damaged stones tangled in most of a tree.

"But, I guess the real question is whether you know what to do with this," Theron said, with a lopsided smile, drawing his sword and offering the hilt to Artemis.

With a soft laugh, Artie took the sword, finding a comfortable grip. There was something familiar, something easy, in the sword's weight, but he couldn't pinpoint much more than that. He gave the sword an experimental swing and apologised when he swung a bit too close to Theron.

"I think I might need more practice before I go into battle wielding one of these," Artemis said sheepishly.

Fenris sidled up to his husband now that he had stopped swinging around the blade and slid an arm around his waist. "And here I thought you would be an expert at wielding Theron's sword," he teased in a soft rumble.

Artie nudged him with an elbow and handed the sword back. "Maybe you can show me how to use yours," he said, mimicking Fenris's tone.

"Somewhere I don't have to see it!" Sheena cut in, dropping a pile of books into Gilroy's arms, so she wouldn't have to lean over to clean them.

"If we're talking about real swords, I want to watch," Murray called out from under a tangle of roots and leaves.

"You'd want to watch even if they were talking about meat swords," Gilroy scoffed, turning his head not to sneeze on the books, as the dust caught up with him.

"You sure you're not talking about yourself? I saw you checking out Alain's ass, when we were leaving," Murray teased, kicking a stone block as thick as his leg down the dirt slope.

"Even if that were true, Alain's not here." Gilroy sniffed, dismissively and immediately regretted it, turning his head to sneeze again. "Besides, isn't he still mooning over that templar?"

"Ser Samson? You think?" Murray scrambled out between roots at the top of the pile of dirt and books, looking for the other piece of something. "I thought he was just worried because the guy got sick while they were in Orlais. You spend months running around Thedas with somebody, you're going to worry."

"You spend months running around Thedas with somebody, that's not all you're going to do." Gilroy raised an eyebrow.

"Why, Gilroy!" Murray grinned wickedly. "Is that an offer?"

Gilroy sneezed again, this time on Sheena.


	134. Chapter 134

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ruins begin to look less ruined. Junar gets himself thrown about, a bit.

The ruins didn't look so ruined, any more -- most of the larger structures had been repaired to Natia's exacting standards, and the roads had been straightened, levelled, and re-cobbled. It looked more like a town that had been abandoned to the last Blight than one that had been abandoned for thousands of years, and every day another wall came together. They'd be moving on to the smaller buildings, soon -- most of those had been reduced to foundations -- and then Theron meant to get Artemis to restore some of the statues. That was well beyond anything Natia could help with, but she watched them, some days, while she and Murray worked on repairing the blocks Sheena and Gilroy had excavated, Theron trying to describe the ancient statues that still decorated parts of Orlais and other ruins in the wood, and Artemis trying to shape the stone to his specifications.

Today, they'd managed something Natia thought looked like some kind of freaky deer head, but Theron was excited because it was supposed to represent one of the gods. As Junar and Maren came back from the hunt, Theron was quick to show it off.

"It's pretty close," Maren said, after a moment. "It's not quite right, but without Ilen's to compare, I couldn't tell you what's wrong."

"You know I've wondered why Ilen didn't become the new Keeper," Junar muttered, as he prepared the deer they'd brought for supper.

"Because he's not a mage?" Theron looked at Junar like he'd lost his mind.

"Nugshit," Junar said, looking up and pointing with his bloody knife. "You know as well as I do that he has magic. More than you do, anyway. That shit he does with the trees? That's not just because he's an elf, no matter what he says, or we'd be able to do it. Paivel would be able to do it. But, Merrill could do it."

"Yeah, but that's all of it, and Merrill can do a lot more than just that. Do you really think Ilen could protect us from the shemlen? Or from Fen'Harel, may his gaze turn away from us? He can do some freaky shit with trees and wood, which is great, but you can't take that into battle," Theron argued, leaning against something he thought might once have been Mythal. "He's just not cut out for it."

"Neither was Merrill, apparently, and now what've we got?" Junar shook his head and lobbed the deer's liver at Theron.

"Hey, don't drop that!" Theron complained, grabbing it out of the air. "I want it for breakfast, tomorrow."

"This is why you're not a badass mage like your dad was. Too much liver." Junar snorted and went back to work. "But, maybe one of your daughters. They're old enough, right? You'll know soon."

"I've got hopes for the twins," Theron admitted, trying to figure out what to do with the bloody liver he was holding. Handing it to Artemis would not help the situation at all. "They've got a chance, still. I hope they are."

"What about the oldest? You been feeding her too much liver?" Junar laughed.

"Nelarie? I feed her a perfectly acceptable amount of liver, thank you, but she's not mine."

Artemis stilled in the middle of fixing a statue's ear. "What?"

"What?" Junar asked a beat later. He looked to Maren, expecting a similar bewildered look, only to find her unfazed.

Maren chuckled in the wake of his confusion. "Can you not count? Our dear Kalli was pregnant when she came to us."

Junar stared down at the deer, brows scrunched as though he were indeed counting.

"Don't think too hard," Artie said. "You'll break something."

Junar sneered and flicked blood in his direction, making the human squeak and step away. Natia laughed, and Artemis looked at her in betrayal.

"Are you sure the twins are yours?" Junar asked, lobbing another organ at Theron. "After everything Merrill had to say about you..."

Theron huffed and dodged the offal. "Merrill is wrong. Merrill also likes shem."

"So do you," Maren pointed out.

"Not the point. I don't pick shem because they've got broadswords for mi'nehn." Theron crossed his arms, still awkwardly clutching the liver. "She's got completely unrealistic expectations when it comes to elves."

"I still think it's because you couldn't fuck while possessed by a spirit of fucking," Junar retorted, setting aside the basket of organs and moving on to the rest of the meat. "Which is a shame, because I bet with the two of you, it'd be non-stop mages."

"I don't know about non-stop," Artie said, checking his clothing to make sure Junar hadn't gotten any blood on him. "My dad was a mage and my mum had magic in her blood, but two of their kids came out normal. Well. Non-mages, I should say. Carver and Anton aren't really normal."

"Three out of five's not bad, though," Theron pointed out. Still, he looked put out as he said, "And _that's_ the statement you correct him on?"

"Don't worry, Theron, I was getting to the part about you being an elven sex god with a mighty mi'nehn."

Theron was mollified. "Merrill is just into broadswords," he assured Junar.

"The implication being that my brother is attached to one," Artie muttered, face twisting. "Could we not?"

"Your brother carries an actual sword that is quite massive," Fenris reminded him. "Just think of him beheading people."

Theron pointed at the sword strapped across his own back, opened his mouth, and then changed his mind.

"Who are we beheading?" Sheena asked, helping Murray over to the fire, before she and Gilroy let him collapse into a ball, beside it.

"Templars, or so I heard," Fenris said, crouching to get a better look at the crumpled mage. "Is he--?"

"He's fine," Gilroy assured Fenris. "He just should've stopped half an hour ago, like I told him to."

"Mrrgh," Murray agreed, holding up a thumb, before dropping his fist on his face.

"She working you too hard?" Junar asked, cocking a thumb at Sheena. "Must've found someplace that doesn't echo like a bellowing dragon."

"Is everything about sex with you, today?" Maren asked, eyebrows arching toward the vault of the sky. "You need to get laid, Junar. It's making you crazy."

"I'll say!" Sheena laughed and grabbed at Gilroy's chest. "These two? Nope, even Gilroy's melons are a little small for my taste."

Gilroy swatted her hands away. "Don't offend my melons!" he said, holding his hands defensively in front of his chest. "You are not worthy of them, anyway."

Natia sidled closer to Junar, resting her hip against the nearest wall. She had noted the sour look that had crossed his face at Maren's comment. "What about you, elf boy?" she asked. "Can you appreciate a good pair of melons? Or are you still preoccupied with Theron's... cucumber?" She folded her arms across her chest in a way that made her own 'melons' more obvious.

"What?" Junar sputtered, his work on the deer still unfinished. "I like melons just fine! I would prefer if Theron kept his cucumbers for the halla!"

"Halla don't like cucumbers," Maren corrected, only half listening, as she laid wood for a fire.

Junar pointed toward Artemis. "Well, that halla--"

Suddenly, Junar was tipped back, his senses filled with the smell of spice and earth, as a pair of lips pressed against his own. His pulse clamoured in his ears, but after a few beats, Natia's voice ghosted across his cheek. "You've got a bit of an obsession, don't you? There are easier ways to get flung into my arms, you know."

"I am not obsessed!" Junar sputtered, hands still clutching at Natia's shoulders for balance. "It's-- I'm-- They're--" From this angle, the dwarf was kind of pretty. Her arms, he realised, were even thicker than his, and she held him like he was weightless. "You're..." Colour crept into his cheeks.

Whispers and coins changed hands between Gilroy and Sheena.

Theron gaped and sputtered, gesturing between Natia and Junar with the liver still in his hand. "What? Did I miss something?"

Maren gave his shoulder a consoling squeeze on her way by. "You often do," she teased.

"Natia!" Artemis said, looking terribly disappointed. "What is this? You could do so much better!"

Junar collected his wits enough for an indignant response. "What, because she's a dwarf and I'm an elf? I thought you were more enlightened than that!"

"No!" Artie snapped. "It's because you're a dick!"

Junar grinned. "And here I thought you were a fan of elf dicks."

Artie's scowl deepened, and Fenris caught him by the arm. "Please do not throw him off a cliff again, Amatus. Natia will not be there to catch him this time."

"You just named a good reason for me to do exactly that."

"If you throw him off a cliff, and he breaks, you're going to have to clean the meat," Maren scolded, before turning a glare on Junar. "And I don't want to hear another word about halla out of you unless they're the kind we can take home to the clan."

"Oh, right, what are you going to--"

"I'll get Theron to write a song about your untimely demise, and when he sings it at the next Arlathvhen, I'll tell everyone it's the flattering version of the story." Maren eyed Gilroy and gestured at the firewood, which he lit, with a flick of his fingers.

Junar huffed. "Fen'harel take you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who only get their Rhapsody fix, here, the next Fan Chat is this Saturday, 12 Aug 2017 @ 13:00-17:00 EDT. ([When is that for you?](https://www.timeanddate.com/worldclock/fixedtime.html?iso=20170812T13&p1=179&ah=4)) You're welcome to join the [Discord server](https://discord.gg/k2W6BWh) in advance!


	135. Chapter 135

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian tries to get into the book Nathaniel lent him, in the hopes it will eventually help him with Bethany. (NSFW)

He'd gone to Nathaniel, after the last time, and he could tell Nathaniel had been trying not to laugh. Still, Sebastian took the advice he'd been given, and tried to make the best of it. Have a few drinks and read the book. It had been working, so far. He could at least take the book out of the shelf and read the introduction without feeling his face flush and his toes curl in horror. Some of the pictures had even started to look ... Well, he could certainly imagine Bethany doing those things with Nathaniel. The simple ones, anyway. The pages Nathaniel had marked for him, in the first place.

But, this time, he meant to try to envision himself doing those things with Bethany. She was his wife, and Nathaniel assured him these were things she quite liked. On the one hand, Sebastian almost regretted having to bring Nathaniel into this, but at the same time, he'd been the youngest son. He'd been given to the Chantry. He had exactly no male role models, growing up, aside from Havard and Hector, who weren't exactly instructive legends when it came to taking a wife. And for that, he supposed, he was glad for Nathaniel. Glad the man could and would take care of Bethany, until he could figure out how to do it, himself.

Placing the book on his desk, Sebastian poured the second glass of wine from the warmer and refilled it. Two bottles of wine would be enough. Probably too much, really, but he didn't need two bottles just to open the book, which was progress. He took a sip and opened the book to the first marked page, reading the accompanying text, before he let his eyes drift to the edges of the image. Bethany -- the most beautiful woman in the world. His wife. What would she look like, like this?

He shied away from the thought, at first. It seemed less disrespectful to consider a drawing than to consider Bethany, but his memory filled in the blanks for him anyway, recalling smooth skin and the shapely swell of her hips from glimpses he had not meant but could not resist taking.

Then he recalled how Bethany had _wanted_ him to look, and he could hear Nathaniel's words as clearly as if he were in the room: " _She's your_ wife _, you idiot_."

Sebastian laughed helplessly into his wine and pushed past his trained hesitance. This time he conjured the image of her body wilfully and reminded himself that he was, indeed, a lucky man.

He imagined what she would look like perched across his hips, like the image on the page. It took him a few tries -- first he saw her with Nathaniel (whose body he could not and did not imagine, but his face filled in easily enough), then he saw himself with her, but as if he were watching from across the room. Finally, he could see her as if she were there and he were looking up at her, like in the picture. Parts of her kept sliding away from his memory, just flesh-coloured smears, but her face stayed clear, smiling in that way she had, when they were alone together.

The hair on his arms stood on end as a tingle ran through his skin. Not shame, for a change. This was his wife. He had married her, and she expected him to look at her, to touch her. Excitement, maybe? Desire? He licked his lips and took another drink of wine, the feel of the glass against his tongue electric. Definitely desire.

Sebastian forced himself to fill in her body, the little accidental glances coming together to provide him with more of her than he'd been able to turn his eyes to at once, and he tried to hold on to that vision. This beautiful woman hadn't just married him for his title, after all, but for his body. And that was a ridiculous thought, gone in a gust of laughter as soon as it crossed his mind. More wine. Definitely more wine.

He was overthinking this again. He tried to fall back into that frame of mind from earlier, into that warmth, that electric tingle. He imagined touching her, her thigh warm under his palm, her skin a soft give under his fingertips. That touch seemed irreverent, at first, still, but he was able to push aside that thought more easily than the one before it. Instead of guilt, the pit of his stomach filled with a growing heat.

For a while, that was the extent of Sebastian's fantasy. They were a still image, like the drawing on the page, but Sebastian took his time enjoying it, trying to commit each piece, each sense, to memory. He needed more wine to consider what came next.

Finishing the glass, Sebastian poured another. The last glass from this bottle remained in the warmer. He wouldn't open the second bottle until he'd poured it, until he was sure he'd drink it. Rolling the warm wine across his tongue, he leaned back in the chair, imagining the smell of Bethany's hair, as she leaned down to whisper in his ear. What would she say? He'd read Orlesian romances, and most of them were foolish garbage. He hoped people didn't say things like that in bed, or he'd be embarrassed for all the people in Thedas. And then he remembered those breathy little sounds Varric had slipped into the reading of that story that had so upset him. Upset, that was one word. And he didn't want to think of Varric. Or of Artemis. But, it didn't take much to nudge those sounds sideways, to put them in Bethany's voice.

And then he felt himself stir, the rush of heat through his inner thighs, the splash of cold on his chest and fingers, and he drank the wine, cradling the warm glass in both hands. The heat ran down through him, tingling, coiling, and he wanted what was in his mind's eye. More wine, and he would forget to be embarrassed by that. He wasn't supposed to be embarrassed by that. But, until he could have these visions and feel this way without shame, he wouldn't embarrass his wife again. He'd work it out on his own, and then he'd offer himself to her, a new man.

Bethany deserved that and more, deserved a man who could love her soul and her body the way she desired. And when Sebastian boiled it down to just that, to a man and his wife, to Bethany and him, the prospect was not so daunting. He had made vows, after all, not as a Brother but as a husband.

A few more fortifying sips, and Sebastian sank back into the fantasy. Bethany's image came more readily to him, and he supposed that was progress in itself, but the thought of those soft sounds on her lips made him burn, just as easily, just as quickly. His hands were tight on the arms of his chair, and he found himself aware of the fabric under his palms and how it didn't quite mimic the feel of hands on skin.

His hands moved then, to more cloth, but cloth he was wearing, and his hands slid over his thighs as he envisioned Bethany's hands doing the same, at once touching and touched -- perhaps her thighs in his hands, if he felt with his hands. But, no, her hands and his skin. That was what he wanted to convince himself of, so that when it happened -- when it truly happened -- he would be prepared. He would surprise her with how easily he accepted her touch, he thought, trying to remember how he'd tied his trousers as his fingers fumbled blindly with the laces. No doubt she would handle those more gracefully, as well, perhaps simply by not having guzzled most of a bottle of wine.

The laces finally fell open, and the cool air of the study licked at his bare skin, bringing a faint chill to the curve of his belly. His hand leapt to block the breeze, and his fingertips lingered on that soft skin. His fingertips -- his hands -- were callused, from the duties of statecraft and from the bow, and the separation between where he could feel the touch in his hands and the press of his wine-warm fingers against his suddenly-chilled skin lent itself to broader interpretations. Someone else's hands. Her hands. Would she touch him like this? He tried to remember the few times she'd put her hands on him, before he pushed her away in embarrassment. Like this, he thought, teasing his hardened fingers just under the unlaced edges of the cloth. Something about her was demanding -- commanding -- even in her gentlest touches, and he tried to remember that feeling, as his fingers dipped lower, caressing the warm curls that led down between his hips and wrapping his hand around the base of his knob, just tight enough to know it was there, just enough to show it was wanted. She did want him, as foolish as he found the idea, and her every touch made the point.

Sebastian was too deep, whether into the fantasy or into the wine, for any embarrassment to take hold this time. He wanted to know what that hand -- her hand -- would do next, and his hand moved as though on its own, tracing up the length of his knob as though learning its shape. His breathing deepened, slow and just a bit ragged at the end of each exhale, sounding loud to his ears in the stillness of the study. He imagined Bethany breathing in his ear, just as unsteady, and the study didn't seem so oppressively quiet. And then he imagined her pulling back to smile at him in that way of hers, small and soft but full of promise. Sebastian wanted to know what promises that smile held as she held him in the palm of her hand.

He shivered at his own touch, his hands gentler than they'd been once, before the Chantry had knocked all thoughts of this from him. He wanted. Like a white-hot flame behind his eyes, he desired his wife. He wished he could feel her hands on him, not just his own and his imagination, and the vision responded -- a small, wet sound, a tightening of the fingers wrapped around him, that wickedly determined look that Bethany so often wore. Four glasses of wine, he would tell her, he thought as his spine stiffened and his hips jerked, chasing his fingers.

This, yes, he just wanted to let go and follow it down, hips rolling, panting out every breath, hand locked tight around him as he rutted into that fist. Shivering and writhing in the chair, he thought of Bethany's smile, Bethany's hands on him, Bethany's body taking him in. With a raw sound he'd never expected to make, Sebastian arched out of the seat, spattering the open page of the book on his desk and the image that started it all.

Sebastian sagged back into his chair, boneless and panting, while reality settled back around his shoulders. He closed his eyes, in no hurry to help it along.

"Maybe next time," his wife's voice said from the doorway, and Sebastian nearly fell out of his chair, "you'll let me help?"

Sebastian considered denying what he had been doing, only to dismiss that idea as the idiocy it was. When he looked at her, Bethany was wearing that same smile he had imagined, equal parts fond and wicked, and Sebastian found himself nodding, incapable of words but wanting to deny her nothing.

"Good." Bethany's eyes roved over him in a way that had him flushing before she left him alone to clean up and put himself back together.


	136. Chapter 136

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samson makes a discovery in the ledger regarding lyrium doses. News arrives from Orlais.

Samson had the rolls pinned down with dishes and boots on the table next to him, as he tried to write up his latest observations of the men under his command. But, something about the numbers dragged at him. Something about his own numbers... He sketched in the averages for the month at the end of every row, making note of who'd changed -- and more of the changed were living through it, now, not that he was convinced that was a good thing, yet, but it wasn't dead, which meant there was still a chance.

And that was when it popped. Almost to a man, the ones who changed had been on low doses. They didn't need much of the red, and too much made them almost uncontrollably violent. But, the men who'd been with him the longest -- and those who'd been templars longest -- shrugged off higher doses than the Chantry would ever have provided. Without enough, they grew slow and lethargic. He, himself, was on higher doses than any of them, and he wasn't shifting. His eyes had taken on only the faintest tinge of red, where those on the Chantry-range doses had eyes that glowed in the dark. He didn't have those glassy pains in his joints -- well, at least not he joints he wasn't still picking glass slivers out of -- but he'd had them before, when Merrill had said he had stones in his blood. And that was a thought, maybe he should try giving the soldiers complaining of those pains some of that tea they'd tried on him back home. The worst it could do was just not help.

Samson rolled the quill in his fingers, testing the range of motion of joints that had once been stiff and all but useless. There was no pain there now, no weakness in his grip. All those years, Samson had hated himself for his weakness, for a weakness the Chantry had fed him and then denied him, but he wondered now if 'weakness' was truly the word. A resistance to the lyrium, perhaps, or an adaptability? Was that why that man -- what was his name? Imshael? -- had chosen him?

Or was he still so weak that he would grasp at any excuse that made him out to be more than the lowlife he'd been in Kirkwall? Samson had more empty bottles than answers.

Still, he had more men living than either of those, and far more living than dead. That had to count for something, especially under these conditions. He wondered if Meredith had been drinking the stuff -- everyone said it was her sword that had infected her. That's what Cullen had said, and Anders seemed to agree, and they both had their own reasons not to say too much about what had happened there, but if they'd had any reason to believe Meredith had been drinking a different kind of lyrium, their case against her could only have been strengthened. No, it had just been that sword, wherever it had ended up when her body disappeared. And if just the sword had destroyed her in less than six years, what chance did any of them have? It would have to be enough. Months or maybe a few years was all they had to destabilise a thousand-year-old system of oppression and slavery. But, hey, how long had it taken Andraste? She might not have gotten all the way to the top, but she'd sure driven Tevinter back to the gates of Minrathous and opened up the south. He had to hope that destroying the hold Orlais had on a good half of Thedas would be enough to keep the Chantry from advancing again. From producing more monsters like himself to serve its hypocritical whims.

A knock on his door reminded Samson to blink, and from the scratchiness of his eyes, he knew he had been staring at these numbers for too long.

"What is it?" he called out, more gruffly than he had meant, and he pulled open the door to find one of his men standing there. "Ah. Good day, Ser Carroll."

"Good day, Samson." Carroll's eyes had a red sheen to them that hadn't been there before, subtle enough for Samson to blame it on a trick of the light if he didn't know better, but they also held a clarity that had not been there the day he and Samson had met. He was another poor soul the Chantry had failed, originally posted to the ever-doomed Kinloch Hold before he had wandered off in a lyrium-addled haze. "I have news."

Samson hummed, face twisting as he let Carroll into the room. "It's too much to hope for good news, I imagine."

"There's been some trouble in Val Royeaux," Carroll said, offering the letter the messenger had brought with the morning post. "The Empress of Orlais has reappeared in the palace, and no one is entirely certain how she got there. There's some talk it might've been that enchantress she keeps around, and she won't say where she's been, just that she's back and she's done taking her cousin -- what's his name? Gaspard, Gascard, Gaston? One of those Orlesian names. But, she's done taking his shit, she says, but in nicer words."

"A war." Samson's eyes gleamed and a hint of a smile curled his lip as he looked up from the letter he held. "The advisors are predicting a war, and that will play right into our hands. How do we reach the Grand Cathedral? By waiting until the empress's forces are busy somewhere else."

"That seems a bit sneaky," Carroll protested, but Samson just shook his head.

"Look out that window. There are hundreds of us, Carroll, but only hundreds. If we're to rip out the Chantry by the roots, we can't go marching in, head on. We'll be slaughtered. And then they'll replace us, and another generation gets to suffer like we did. No more. And if that means we have to keep Orlais busy tearing itself apart, while we move in for the kill, then that's what we have to do. And fuck Orlais, anyway. You're Fereldan, aren't you? What good ever came out of Orlais?"

"Well, they do have surprisingly good chocolate," Carroll said, with the slightest curve of his lips. "But I see what you mean." He drew in a breath and straightened his shoulders. "You know, ser, when you talk like that, it makes me think that we might have a chance."

That startled a barking laugh out of Samson. The last thing he ever thought he would be was 'inspiring' -- and he wondered how lyrium-addled Carroll still was to think so -- but he would take what he could get. He thought of his men, of all the red vials waiting to be emptied, of the emptier look in the eyes of those men about to turn. The cost was too high for them to not succeed, the sacrifices too great and too many.

"We do," Samson said with a conviction he wished he could feel. "Maker willing."


	137. Chapter 137

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A room left unopened since Tevinter invaded the south gives Theron some new insights into Elven history.

Sheena tried again to order the pieces of the broken tablet. As they'd restored the ruin, they'd had to remove damaged artefacts, to prevent worse damage, and those pieces had been set aside, to be repaired or remade once the structures had been restored. Usually, she or Artemis would put the pieces in order -- the more pieces something was in, the less chance anyone else would have the patience -- and Murray would bind them. Of all of them, Murray had the lightest touch, and they didn't want to risk damaging the engravings. Where words or figures were broken, Theron could usually tell what went in the gaps, and he wandered among the remnants with a stick of charcoal, sketching and making notes on the floor around things. Sometimes, Natia could identify where something had fallen from, by the marks still in the stone, and she and Junar would figure out how it had to go back, so Gilroy could get it into place and make it stay.

But, this tablet, in particular, had Theron's attention -- something about the lines on one of the faces -- and she and Artemis struggled over it, while Theron cast unhelpful shadows and scrawled incomprehensible doodles on the floor around them.

Artemis chewed his lip, fiddling with the piece of stone in his hand. He had organized the pieces in neat rows by theme. Pieces with parts of a figure on them went in one cluster, a few faces and a pair of hands holding what looked like a jug the clearest images he could make out. Sheena had already set up the tablet's frame, finding fragments with the right, flattened edges. It was just a matter of filling in the rest.

"It looks like water down here," Sheena said, pointing at the bottom of the tablet as she reached across Artemis to pick up a few fragments with a stylised pattern that, now that she had mentioned it, looked like it might represent water.

"Here." Artie picked up a piece from the cluster of figure fragments. "This looks like more water with... a pair of arms?"

Sheena cooed in excitement, and the rest of the bottom panel filled in quickly, depicting a woman with a tattooed face waist-deep in water, pouring out a jug. Artie wasn't sure what to make of that and went to work on filling in what else he could.

"This is strangely relaxing," he said with a sheepish smile, ignoring Murray's disbelieving snort from the other side of the room.

Another few larger pieces fit around the last panel, as the shapes around the dividing line became clear, but after turning a piece three times and squinting at the edges, Sheena cocked an eyebrow at Theron, who was watching closely. "Have you been studying magic, lately? Are you practising some new spells, maybe?"

Theron blinked in confusion. "What, me? I'm about as magical as a rock, or I'd be Keeper."

"Then maybe you can stop _casting shadows_."

Gilroy snorted into his drink and choked, in the lee of a massive statue he'd just raised to Natia's specifications. "That was bad, Sheena!" he called out, brushing the beaded tea off the front of his shirt. He was still getting used to not wearing robes.

"Not as bad as elfbreath's shadow moving across the lines I'm trying to match!" Sheena shot back, swatting at Theron's knees. "Seriously, go hassle Fenris for a while. You're blocking the light."

"It's a ritual for Mythal," Theron insisted, pointing at the lines on two of the faces as he tried to dance out of the way of Sheena's hands. "I can see it!"

"And I can't see a damn thing, because you're in my light!"

"Theron." Artemis patted Theron's shoulder and gave him a gentle nudge in Fenris's direction. "You can tell us all about the tablet and the ritual and what the Blight it's for when we're done. Right now, all I can make out is a woman with a jug."

"Yeah, maybe if they keep working, they'll find her other jug," Gilroy said, looking pleased with himself.

Sheena rolled her eyes. "And you say _my_ jokes are bad."

"I never said mine weren't!"

Artie opened and closed his mouth, setting aside the pieces that formed another image of a jug without a word.

Theron's drooping ears made his pouting extra pathetic, and Artemis shooed him off. "We'll call you back when we have something for you. Stop giving me that face."

"You want to borrow a herder to get your halla back in line?" Junar laughed from where he lay on the floor next to Natia, trying to figure out what had been hanging in the centre of the room. The mounts were still there, but they were broken, and whatever it had been was long destroyed.

"I'm not going to stop him if he throws you off another cliff," Theron warned, sighing as he leaned on a wall near where Fenris stood, looking out across the forest. "It's important," he muttered to Fenris. "Everything that happened here matters."

"The truth takes a long time, doesn't it?" Fenris smiled slyly, eyes still studying the way the wind moved the trees.

"You have no id--" Theron stopped, glanced at Fenris, and slid down the wall laughing. "Sorry. You do know, don't you."

"Do you believe elves used to be immortal?" Fenris asked, glancing down at Theron.

"Why wouldn't I? It's true." Theron shrugged.

"Perhaps they needed to be, and here we are, still waiting for an answer."

"That's fucking cheerful. Thanks, Fenris."

On the other side of the room, Sheena tried to fit one tiny shard after another into a hole in the next panel. "If this turns out to be a recipe for beer, I'm going to be so pissed."

"I won't be," Artemis said. "That would be amazing. Is that what you think is happening down there? The woman is swimming in beer and trying to guzzle the rest?"

Fenris levelled a look at Theron that didn't quite manage to be serious. "Everything that happened here matters," he quoted back.

Theron grinned up at him. "If a ritual dedicated to Mythal involved beer, you are damn right it does!"

"Please don't start on any drunken rituals," Junar huffed, wishing the lot of them would be quiet. Natia was a pleasant warmth at his side. "I have heard enough of the halla's bleating already."

"I can think of another ritual that involves me throwing you through a wall." Artemis's voice was tight as he completed another panel. Or made it as complete as it was going to be, anyway, with all the missing chunks.

"Please tell me you're almost done," Murray groaned loudly, from where he'd just finished smoothing the surface of what he sincerely hoped was a gigantic flowerpot, because if it wasn't, it might have been a beer vat. "I just want to tack that together and then go drown my sorrows in fricasseed whatever Junar dragged in last night."

"Elk," Junar noted, studying the engravings over his head. "Hey, Theron, can you actually read this?"

"Nope. It's not Elvish, Tevene, or Common. And I can't read Tevene well, but I can at least transliterate it. But, that? Alamarri, maybe? Probably came with the building, whatever it was." Theron fell silent for a moment. "It's weird, you know, we hear about the barbarians, and half the people in Ferelden still live like barbarians, but then we find things like this, and like that place up in the Wending Wood, and it's ancient. It's before Tevinter ever crossed the sea. How much of this 'barbarian' lifestyle is because of the Tevinter invasions? How much is because Tevinter and, according to that dead guy, something else completely terrifying came in and trashed the place and ruined thousands of years of culture and tradition? It's the same thing that happened to us, really."

"And now, Orlais." Gilroy made a rude gesture to the west.

"Orlais happened to us, too," Junar reminded him.

"You... _are_ Orlesian," Sheena pointed out.

"Does it really count? I'm a mage. I don't know anything about Orlais or being Orlesian that I didn't read in books. I'm a Kirkwaller, if I have to be anything." Gilroy snorted. "And that's all the fault of the Chantry, isn't it? The word of Andraste with an empire behind it. Orlais is _why_ I didn't grow up Orlesian."

"In my limited experience," Fenris said in a soft rumble. "When someone leaves Orlais, it is generally because of Orlais."

Gilroy gestured at Fenris with a grand flourish. "Exactly."

With a shrug, Fenris added, "The same can be said of Tevinter. Though how I left Tevinter and still ended up surrounded by mages is beyond me."

"Maybe because you married one?" Sheena offered.

"That is the prevailing theory, yes."

"Sorry," Artemis said, in a way that indicated that he was not sorry at all. He kicked aside a bit of rubble with his foot to better examine an inscription he could not read. "And whatever could be said about Fereldan barbarians, at least we didn't have toilet demons like Tevinter."

"Don't be so sure of that," Murray sighed, nibbling at a bit of cheese, while he tried to repair the engravings on the base of a statue. "You can't read this stuff. Maybe you just haven't found the toilet demons, yet."

"Come here and tack this." Sheena waved at Murray. "We're down to the last, and I don't want to sneeze and move a piece. It's definitely some kind of ritual -- there's all these guys bowing and something with an altar."

Theron kicked himself up out of the corner of the wall, closing the greater distance faster than Murray.

"No." Sheena pointed at Theron. "Wait until he seals the edges."

Sheena and Artemis managed to fit a couple more pieces while Murray worked, carefully merging the broken stone.

"That's Elvish," Theron said, pointing to the inscription accompanying the panels. "If I show you the shapes, can you fix them?"

Murray groaned and rubbed his wrists. "Get me a sandwich and I'll do it. I still have the notes from last time." He carefully slid a piece of paper out of his vest and unfolded it.

"You're my hero. The Dalish will sing about you until Thedas itself sinks into the sea," Theron promised, humming cheerfully to himself as he dashed off to make a sandwich for the mage who was going to make history legible.

"As long as you're not the one singing it," Murray mumbled after him. He considered how quickly Theron had run off to make that sandwich and muttered a curse under his breath. "Damn. I should have asked for more than a sandwich. A backrub, maybe?"

"He'd just turn it into a poem while he's doing it and make it weird," Junar replied. "Better he make a poem about the sandwich."

* * *

Theron was getting tired of being wet. Pray to the water, drink the water, stand in the water... He was going to have to pee if this kept up. But, finally, he figured out the intonation on the word that had been bothering him, and the huge metal door at the end of the room swung open. "Get ready for more ruins," he muttered, shaking the water off his leg, as he headed up the central corridor of the room.

This had obviously been a temple, to judge by the statues and engravings, but that left the question of what could be behind the door? Secrets left by the ancient priesthood? Magical wonders? As Theron stepped into the doorway and took stock of the room, the first word to cross his lips was 'Oh.' The second was 'Shit.'

"What is it?" Gilroy asked, squinting over his shoulder. "Some extra holy secret altar?"

"Kind of..." Theron replied, trying to get his mouth to stay closed even as his eyes opened wider. "It's a tomb that isn't a tomb." He stepped around the pile of bones in the entry, looking at the rags threaded through the pile. "And I think this place has been looted, but that was once a high priestess, probably of Mythal, if I read her face right on the tablet. These would be her acolytes." He gestured to what looked like coffins with beds on top along the side, each with the bones lying near it but not on it, all of them closed. "They went into Uthenera, but they never came back. If they had, they'd have been able to open the door and let themselves out. These were elves who still expected to be immortal. They went to walk in the Beyond. I wonder if what happened here was the end of our immortality. I wonder if this was only one of many places that horror went, stealing our lives."

"Everything steals our lives, Theron." Junar snorted. "We're elves."

"But back then, we were more," Theron murmured, examining the not-coffin in the centre of the room with a look somewhere between awe and regret. The more they found, the more he understood what they had lost.

The mages stood back a respectful distance from the coffins while Theron made his circuit. Whether this was meant to be a tomb or not, it had become one, and the room inspired a reverence the rest of the ruins had not.

In the silence, the scrape of bone on stone was grating, and as one they turned to the sound, to the pile of bones they had stepped over on their way through the door. The bones were no longer a pile, scraping themselves together and up to stand the way they had in life, held up as though on strings. There was a blue glow in the broken eye sockets of the skull, a low growl from vocal cords that no longer existed.

Fenris groaned, pulling his sword from his back. "I grow tired of demons."

"I thought it was the viscount that summoned demons. Is this just a Hawke thing?" Natia asked, leaping back from the doorway, to let the mages take her place around the dead thing. She knew there were names that meant what kind of formerly dead thing they were, but they came down in two major categories, for her -- ghosts and skeletons, and this was much more skeleton.

"Do you care if I break it?" Sheena asked, as Gilroy shoved it away from them.

"Just don't set it on fire," Theron called back, turning to make sure none of the other skeletons were rising. "I want to examine that cloth!"

"You got it!" Sheena replied, dragging the creature out of the way of some decorative work she was afraid of breaking. "I'll hold it, you hit it," she told Artemis. She had pushing and pulling down, but pounding things flat was still a bit weak.

A wall of ice swept across Sheena and her companions, and as they leapt back from it, Murray staggered, sick and suddenly weak. Sheena hit the thing, anyway, not waiting for Artemis to take aim, and Fenris's blade followed quickly.

"Shades!" Theron called out from the other side of the room, the scrape of a sword being unsheathed loud in the echoing room.

"Go help Theron," Artemis told Fenris, eyes on the creature in front of him -- an Arcane Horror, he had heard such things called. "Feel free to use Junar as a shield."

Artemis ignored Junar's indignant noises and reached for a spell that would pull the undead creature to the floor. Natia pulled Murray out of the creature's line of fire as Artie called for Sheena to keep it where it was.

With a clench of his fist, Artie sent the creature to the floor, the crack of breaking bones oddly satisfying, but not before it sent off another attack, a line of blue energy streaking Artemis's way. It clipped him in the shoulder as he tried to dodge, sending him spinning back and cursing at the burn.

"I really hate those things," he gritted out. A blue bubble of protective energy rippled to life around him, and Artie frowned at it, wishing it had been there two seconds earlier. "Oh look, I can still do that."

Murray's eyes still rolled loosely in their sockets as he tried to focus on Artemis. "Well, there's the answer to a question we asked weeks ago," he muttered.

"You all right?" Gilroy asked, generally, shoving a shade onto Fenris's sword.

"I'm just going to lay here a minute," Murray groaned, waiting for the hexes to wear off. "Nobody told me skeletons had spells!"

As the last of the shades faded out, Sheena crouched down next to the pile of broken bones and cloth, trying to free the cloth without doing any more damage. In some places, the bones had punched through, when Artemis had crushed the thing, but better the cloth than any of them, no matter what Theron might have to say on the subject. "You sure they didn't wake up, Theron? This one sure got back up when we came in."

Theron leaned on his sword, in exactly the way one shouldn't. "Demons," he said, catching his breath. "That priest or any of the acolytes could have opened the door, but I don't think the demon knew how. And somebody stick a rock in that, because I don't know how, either, and if a demon can't get through that wall, I don't really want to try."

"They also probably didn't have the extra exits at the time," Natia said, pointing up at the ceiling where tree roots and sunlight had broken through, "but don't worry, I already took care of the door. These aren't my first demon-infested ruins." She tossed a wink at Junar, who still didn't know how to be anything other than flustered in the wake of that look. But she seemed pleased at the grin he offered in return.

"What about the others?" Fenris asked, eyes narrowed on the other coffins, on the other remnants of cloth and bone. He still gripped his sword by the hilt, his guard still up. "I would rather not find another demon rising up behind me."

Theron offered him a lopsided shrug. "I imagine they would have attacked with the others, but I have no way of knowing." He made his way over to the Arcane Horror, poking at the bones with his sword before crouching in front of it. He allowed himself a moment of regret for the fallen priest. They should not have been reduced to this.

"So, tell me a story," Murray said, from the floor, where he stared up at the vaulted ceiling above them. "These people went to the Fade, and they were supposed to come back, but demons came back, instead?" He shot a look up at Gilroy's hip, but Gilroy and Sheena's eyes were already on him.

"Harrowing," Sheena said, knowing instantly what he was thinking.

"Well, it shouldn't have been," Theron answered, misunderstanding Sheena's use of the word. "That's what Falon'din and Dirthamen were there for -- to lead our ancestors on their journeys into the Beyond. But, not all of them came back. After a while, none of them did. These priests expected to return, but I can't help but think something stopped them. Maybe the thing that killed our friend out there." He cocked his head at Artemis and gestured toward the door. "These bodies would have been on top of the coffins, not in them. None of them are open except the middle one, which would have been hers." He lifted an edge of the cloth he was still trying to free from the bones. "And that's why I expected looting, but I'm not so sure. It might have been the demons looking for a way out."

"Demon. Singular," Gilroy suggested, as he looked around. "Shades are spirits of the dead. The Veil's trashed here, Theron. They did come back. Probably too late."

Theron shook his head in amazement. "Hopefully they can find rest now." He winced, mouth twisting up at his choice of words. "Well, another, more permanent sort of rest than they were expecting." He was surprised by how well-preserved some of the cloth was but more surprised by the integrity of the priest's breastplate. It had suffered a dent or two under the combined efforts of Artemis and Sheena, but it had kept much of the ribcage intact.

"This is some nice armour," Theron murmured, scraping away a bit of grime with his fingernail. The detailing along the edge was intricate and well-preserved, and something about it rang as familiar.

"I can see that," Junar drawled from where he stood next to the central coffin. He nudged a bracer with his foot where it had fallen to the floor. Around and in the coffin were scattered the rest of the pieces, as though the priest had shed her armour like a second skin, letting it slough off of her with each step.

"Looks like a lot more than you're wearing," Natia pointed out, coming around the other side of the bones to get a look at the breastplate Theron was picking at. "This what elven armour used to look like before you guys got back into the leather?" She shot a glance at Junar's legs. "Not that I'm complaining about the leather."

Junar coughed and ducked his head, catching Fenris's amused look as he glanced to the side.

"That's it!" Theron pointed at Natia. "That's exactly what this is! Help me get this off her. Junar, bring me whatever's over there. You recognise it, Shakes and Quakes? Because I do."

Artemis was not sure how he felt about stripping armour from a dead person, no matter how dead, but he supposed he had done worse. "I do, actually," Artemis said, surprised at himself. "That elf... the one in the gem. He had armour like this, didn't he?"

Theron's grin was broad, just this side of manic as he gathered together all the pieces of the armour and laid them on the floor. With a sigh, Artemis joined him, organising the pieces in a way that made more sense and that did not make him twitch. 

"How would you like some new armour to match your new skills?" Theron asked Artie.

Artemis blinked. " _Armour_?"

"He's a _mage_ ," Murray complained, finally sitting up. "What's he need with armour?"

"What does he not need with armour? Have you seen him work?" Sheena joked, studying the leather on a glove. "It's enchanted. I mean, duh, but it's really heavily enchanted. Feel the leather, and then look at that body. Only one of these things decayed. This armour expected immortality, and it wouldn't surprise me to find out this is dragon leather."

"Not at that thickness," Theron argued, looking at the edge of a belt. "Drake, maybe. Halla would probably be thinner... Where's Maren? Junar, come take a look at this. You got any idea what this is?"

"That's a weird size," Junar agreed. "Whatever that is, it's nothing I've run into in this forest, and we spent enough years around here. Nevarra, maybe, or Tevinter might have something."

"Or the Blight killed it," Natia pointed out. "It's not bronto, nug, or cretahl. I know that much."

"So, are you going to wear it?" Gilroy asked, finally, eyeing Artemis. "And show off all your ancient elf magic? Because if you are, I want to run upstairs and grab the honey chestnuts."

"No one say food," Murray groaned, still shaking off the after-effects of one of those hexes. Entropy was the worst right after lunch.

Artemis poked at a plate with his toe. He didn't know the first thing about armour or how to put it on, but he pictured his little brother in his templar uniform, remembered how imposing a figure he had cut. "I could try it?" he said with exactly as much unsurety as he felt.

Theron tapped his chin, giving Artie an appraising look that made him fidget. "It might be a bit big on you, since you're a skinny mage."

Fenris opened his mouth to point out that Artemis was also a _human_ skinny mage, only to decide to let them figure it out for themselves.

Artemis didn't seem terribly convinced either. He gestured helplessly at the breastplate. "So... how does that go on?"

"Ah! Like this!" Theron unfastened the side straps, but left the shoulders, as he lowered the contraption over Artemis's head. "Just stick your arms out and--" The skinny mage was not as thin as he'd thought. "There is no way you wear a larger size than I do."

"My sister says he does," Fenris pointed out. "My husband is a human, Theron. He's taller and wider than both of us, though possibly not both of us at the same time."

"Well... shit." Theron's hands fluttered in irritation, before he hefted the metal back off of Artemis, offering it to Fenris, who easily pulled it on and buckled it, after taking off his sword.

"It is not a bad fit, but much heavier than I am accustomed to," Fenris admitted, reaching for his sword and taking a few practise swings, the leather at the bottom slapping at his thighs. He knew the feel of leather on leather, and that felt like it had been well-maintained.

Theron just stared, looking for words, as he sorted through the pile of memories that had been bestowed upon him. "With the rest of it, you'd look like the real thing," he finally settled on.

Artemis gave his husband an appraising look. It was beautiful armour -- or it would be once they knocked out the dents he had made -- but it didn't hug Fenris's form in quite the same way.

Fenris caught Artie's look and raised an eyebrow in a question.

"It's impressive armour," Artemis said. "I'm just lamenting that it blocks one of my favourite views." He let his gaze linger on where he knew Fenris's ass to be under the plate and leather, earning him a huff of laughter from his husband.

"Just rest assured that it will protect that view from harm," Fenris drawled, "but it is good to know that your priorities are in the right place."

Artie waggled his eyebrows at his husband, who smirked in reply.

Gilroy cocked a thumb at the couple. "And just think, they said we'd never get the chance to look at anybody like that, because we're mages. I hope somebody has that kind of respect for my ass, one day."

"I respect your ass enough not to sleep next to it after you've been eating halla cheese," Murray muttered, dragging himself to his feet to get a better look at the rest of the room. "What do you think, Sheena? Can we fix that in place, or do we have to pull down the busted blocks, first?"

"First? We have to move the tree, first. And then one of us probably has to get up there." Sheena turned to grin at Junar. "And that means you get to climb the walls for us some more!"

"You're so lucky I decided to come along on this halfwit's holiday," Junar huffed, studying the stonework and trying to figure out the best way up.


	138. Chapter 138

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kairos and Diantha visit the Gallows, to meet some other mages.

"Is that them?" Keran asked, moving Carver's arm out of the way of his view of the stairs from the docks. "Gotta be, right? Who else would be coming here with kids?"

"You'd be surprised," Ella said, nudging Keran. "Better here than any other Circle, right now. Except maybe Dairsmuid. I've heard nice things about that place. It's why no one ever gets sent there any more, you know. 'Traditional' magics of Rivain. We should go, sometime, Alain."

"I should go to Val Royeaux," Alain grumbled, running a hand through his hair.

Carver dropped a heavy arm across Alain's shoulders. "He's almost old enough to be my dad and he's got Maddox to look after him. He knows what he's doing."

"Did you see him, before he left? Just Maddox with him? It's--" Alain stopped as the young blond man and the two elven children got into hearing range.

"Good to see you," Carver said, nodding to Feynriel.

"We'd have been quicker, but they're still afraid of boats," Feynriel apologised.

Keran crouched down, armour clanking. "Let me guess... Kairos and Diantha, right? I'm Keran and this is Ella and the guy making sulk faces off the end is Alain. I'll give a ginger sweet to the first of you to make him smile."

"Oh, fuck off," Alain groaned, turning his face to the sky.

"Children!" Ella hissed, swatting the back of Alain's head.

"Eff off, then," he grumbled.

Ella threw a desperate, apologetic look Feynriel's way. Feynriel just shrugged. "I suspect they've heard worse from Kalli."

For all his earlier bravado, Kairos took a shy step back from Keran, putting Diantha between them. At least, Feynriel noted, it was the nervousness of meeting a stranger, and not the fear of meeting a templar. He hoped they never needed to learn that fear.

"You're a templar?" Diantha asked, glancing at Carver and at the Sword of Mercy emblazoned on their chests. At Keran's smile and nod, she added, "Does each mage get their own templar here?"

Alain didn't smile, but there was the barest movement in that direction. Though that just reminded him that he had been paired up with Samson, which only brought back his scowl.

But Ella laughed, nudging Keran's shoulder. "No, I'm just special." She gave Diantha a wink.

"Merrill must be special, too," Diantha ventured, with another glance at Carver.

"Well, she's sure special to him," Ella joked, poking Carver in what would've been the ribs, without all the plate in the way.

"And to the alienage," Carver reminded her. "That's why she's not here, today. She's up arguing with the council to make sure elves get the same rights as humans. Cities are bad about that."

"I'd say ask Theron about it when he gets back, but don't ask Theron anything. Ask Kalli. She used to live in Denerim, which is a city in Ferelden," Feynriel explained. "It's like Paivel's always saying -- in most places, humans and elves don't get on as well as we do, here." He held his breath, waiting for one of them to ask after his father, but neither did.

"Ferelden? Isn't that where Theron went?" Kairos asked, looking up at Feynriel.

"That's right. He and Lord Hawke went down to a place called Gwaren, in the south of Ferelden."

"Lord Hawke being my brother. One of my brothers. The brother I am least annoyed with." Carver shook his head. "We grew up in Ferelden. All over it, but I mostly remember the south. My brother says we lived in the same village with Commander Cullen, but I was too young to remember that."

Alain shot Carver a look. "No shit?"

"Ask my brothers. They're all older. One of them probably remembers, but I don't." Carver shrugged.

"If you told me, we'd have made a trip to check on your people, down there, while we were out. We had to go all the way down to the Wilds, anyway." Alain rubbed the bottom of his sleeve in his fingers like he was trying to push his thumb through the cuff.

"Everyone I remember..." Carver glanced at the kids and shook his head. "My family came here with me. There's no one else to look for."

"I'm going to go to Ferelden one day!" Diantha announced, lifting her chin. "I'll be a great mage and I'll go teach at that mage school Lord Hawke is building!"

Feynriel chuckled, tousling her hair and getting a scowl and a swat for his efforts. "It will take a lot of time and practice," he cautioned her, "but you will be a great mage, yet. Both of you!"

"I'm not teaching in some stuffy human building, though," Kairos grumbled, still eyeing the new people warily.

Feynriel bit back a sigh. "You have plenty of time to decide what you would like to do with your skills. For now, what's important is learning how to use them, which is why we're here." He clapped a hand on each of their shoulders. "There is only so much that I can teach you, as a dreamer. Our friends Ella and Alain have more experience with elemental magic."

"Which one of you sets things on fire?" Alain asked, somewhat uncomfortable with being called upon for this -- somewhat uncomfortable existing, since Samson had gone to Val Royeaux without him. But, he knew he wasn't supposed to be allowed to teach, after that incident with Grace. Still, these children were taking lessons with Merrill, so maybe it was safer -- or substantially less safe -- to give them lessons with another known blood mage. Not that he'd ever done it again, after Grace died. But, it was one of those things that stuck with you for life.

Kairos raised his hand, uncertainly.

"You get to stay out here, with me." Alain tried to smile, but only half-succeeded. "You've got to keep a firm grip on fire, don't let it define the rules -- somebody burned down the entire tower, in Starkhaven. That's why Ella and I are here in the first place. But, I heard Lady Amell's making sure their new one is mostly stone. And this place? A thousand years of mages hasn't destroyed the Gallows -- not even with giant statues stomping around in the courtyard on fire. So, not much to worry about, here. We're just going to keep you away from the library, until I'm sure you're not going to set fire to something I need."

"I'll stay with the two of you, for now." Carver made it sound like an offer. "Marlein wants to meet the kids, at some point," he said to Alain.

"You think she can handle it?" Alain asked, raising an eyebrow. He knew Marlein had taken on renegade templars in the middle of Lowtown, but mage children were a whole other kind of frightening.

"One way to find out, right?" Carver grinned.

"I think I like you better, right now. I wouldn't like you in lace garters, but I don't need you in lace garters for this," Alain teased, knowing how many mages were in Carver's family.

"And that leaves you with us!" Ella held a hand out to Diantha. "We'll go down by the water, away from the docks. Maybe one day, you could make a bridge."

"Why don't you make one?" Diantha asked, squinting suspiciously up at Ella.

"The war," Keran answered. "But, by the time you're old enough to try, I bet we won't be at war any more."


	139. Chapter 139

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theron tells tales of why we don't cut down trees in the Brecilian Forest. Maren returns with some... 'halla'.

Trees, Natia found, were not as easy to deal with as stone. They were less predictable, growing in whatever direction they pleased, and with the patience of decades, of centuries, they pushed aside whatever was in their way. They in turn were not so easily moved, to Natia's frustration, as she watched the mages try and fail to bend branches into more reasonable shapes. There was only so much work they could do while there were roots growing through the ceiling.

Next to her, Theron chewed the inside of his cheek, no more helpful than the others so far. "This would be easier with Merrill," he sighed.

Natia snorted. "I think being baroness is more important than shifting around some trees."

"I'd say I could make a solid stone curve a little short of the actual wall, but I don't know how long that'll hold up," Murray offered. "And it won't move what we have, just keep it from happening again."

"The rest of them were easy," Gilroy complained. "They'd already fallen in. We could just pick them up and replant them outside."

After the first attempts, they'd gone back to working on the smaller buildings, for a while, but if they were ever getting out of here, they had to be able to finish the burial chamber. "Remind me again why we can't just cut down these two trees and be done with it?"

Junar sucked in a breath and stepped sharply back from her side.

"No," Theron said, firmly, holding up a hand. "You can't cut the trees here. Deep within this ancient forest, where the Veil is but a dream, lived a shaper spirit-cursed, barely could he shape a beam. Til the day his clan lay starving, no longer had they bows to bend, when he set out into the forest, all their fortune set to mend. One rowan tree was perfect wood for him to craft the finest bows, but its life it with him pleaded as his axe to strike it rose. No mercy had he wit to grant it, as his clan at camp were starving. He struck it down and with its limbs his best work he crafted finely. The hunters did his bows accept, and with them set out in the wood."

Junar clapped the rhythm as Theron took a breath, and the mages from Kirkwall watched, enraptured, never having been subjected to Theron's tales before.

"The first night out the bows shot truly, bringing many hares to ground, and proudly did the hunters come back offering meat all around. But, opening the rabbit skin did lead to horror and surprise, for nothing more than dust and ashes spilled like blood out from inside. Their hahren spoke out saying wisely that one had from a spirit stolen, and to the Beyond he did shoo it with a spell from times forgotten. But, the next night this repeated, hunters bringing sawdust game, and the hahren bid them fetch a rowan to confess their shame. When the carver, his confession, laid before the honoured tree, the wood itself did cry in protest knowing he'd ignored the plea. And where the camp of elves had stood, lives now a grove of rowan trees." Theron leaned back against a statue-topped column. "They say the trees had the faces of elves, but I've been all over this forest, and I'm not sure that's true, but we do not cut trees here. Anyway, that's the short version, dramatically edited for time."

The mages clapped, cheered, and whistled, and Theron stopped in the middle of what he was about to say, dipping into a bow with a self-deprecating laugh.

"Don't feed his ego," Junar warned. "It will only encourage him."

"I don't know," said Murray. "That was pretty awesome. I think encouraging was the intention, here."

Junar threw him a pained look. "Just remember those words when he starts rhapsodising about your breakfast."

"Perhaps I will share some more over the campfire later," Theron suggested, ignoring Junar and looking thoroughly pleased with himself. "For now, however, I hope you understand why we are not cutting down any trees?"

He turned to Natia, who nodded slowly, eyes wide as she pictured a tree with her face in it. "Work around the trees. Gotcha." The Deep Roads were so much easier in comparison.

"I wish we had some halla," Theron sighed, tipping his chin at Junar. "I could send you back to where we used to camp -- there's at least one other camp between here and there, you know the guys, the ones who never move."

"Keeper Zathrian." Junar snorted. "Fuck that guy. Do you really think he lived three hundred years?"

"If he did, he's an asshole for not sharing. I know he lost a few hunters, if nothing else. He might be immortal, but the clan isn't." Theron shook his head. "Yeah, okay, skip them. But, somebody's got to be camped around here that we can borrow a Second from, or even a crafter like Ilen."

"That shit with the trees," Junar said, nodding. "That would be perfect."

"Did you say Zathrian?" Gilroy asked, turning away from the conversation he was having with Sheena and Murray about elf poetry. "Isn't that the guy who died in the thing with the werewolves? I heard the story in the tavern before we left town. Something about an ancient Dalish curse and a bunch of people wandering out of the woods with no idea what year it was."

As Theron opened his mouth, the sound of hoofbeats caught his attention. "That is a lot of something very large running this way, and I vote we get out of its way."

Theron caught sight of antlers through the trees, and for a moment, he thought that they were halla, summoned somehow by his mentioning a need of them. But the antlers were too wide and splayed, and much too high off the ground, attached to bulkier, shaggier creatures easily twice the weight of a halla.

He was so busy with figuring out the trajectory of these horned beasts that he almost did not see Maren walking beside them. The beasts slowed to a stop, and she beamed in the wake of his confused look. "Look what I found! The gods have blessed us!"

"Maren," he said, working through a few useless syllables before continuing, "those are not halla." He spoke slowly, hoping she understand that.

Maren rolled her eyes. "Of course they're not. I was tending to our halla since before you were born. I would hope I know what one looks like!"

"Are those ... elk?" Junar asked, blinking at the giant beasts towering over him. "What the fuck are elk doing in this forest?"

"Probably the Blight," Maren said, shrugging. "The darkspawn came up through the Wilds and the Hinterlands and probably set everything running. But, I'm just going to assume it's Ghilan'nain's blessing, and we're taking them home."

"You're... fitting those on the ship how, exactly?" Junar walked a circle around the elk leaning into Maren's hand for attention.

"Oh, I'm going back before you. The elk and I will sail back to Kirkwall, while you go to see Earthquake Boy's childhood home." Maren grinned cheekily. "It's not like you actually need me here. I'm just here for the... elk, apparently."

Maren coaxed the elk away with soft sounds and words that only made sense to her while Theron looked on, shaking his head in amazement. "I wish I could see Paivel's face when she leads them up Sundermount."

"I'm more interested in the reaction of the Kirkwall dockworkers," Artie replied. He tilted his head, considering. "Although, they have probably seen much, much weirder by now." 

"Sorry, Junar," Natia said, loud enough to make sure that Artemis could hear her. "It looks like we'll only be returning with the halla we brought here." She grinned at Artie and his look of betrayal.

"Not you too!"

Theron clapped Artemis on the shoulder and gave it a consoling squeeze. "Better a halla than an elk," he said as though imparting great wisdom.

Artie wasn't sure how to take that.


	140. (Autumn 9:40)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anton ventures into Darktown to see to his constituents' troubles. Upon venturing into the Undercity, he finds yet more troubles lurking beneath the surface.

It was Anton's plan, because a plan like that could only have come from Anton. Merrill was quick to agree, but Aveline took a bit more convincing.  
  
"Anton, you're the Viscount of Kirkwall. You can't just go running around in Darktown," Aveline protested, not for the first time, as she followed Anton toward the nearest entrance.  
  
"I do it all the time!" Anton retorted. "Just... not professionally. I can skip the ferry to the Gallows and just walk it, if I take the sewer route. It's because I'm viscount that it's so important I know all the places you can get to and from, down there. But, it's time to get past that. Lowtown looks great. The Alienage is gorgeous. The Chantry is apparently my problem, now, but people are still living in Darktown. In the sewer. A sewer you can get to from my cellar. And we're not looking after these people if they don't come up to the surface, and that's not right."  
  
"He has a point," Merrill offered. "Disease is still spreading down there, despite the clinics, because not enough people trust the idea of coming up. And Anders used to take care of them, but he's gone, and we don't have a clinic down there, any more. We have to bring the city's services to where people are going to use them, not just assume they're going to come to where we put them. I mean, if you look at the Alienage... How many years did people go without, because they didn't trust anything in the rest of the city?"  
  
Aveline brushed aside her comments with an annoyed wave of her hand. "Yes, yes, I understand why someone needs to do take a look at Darktown, but I fall to understand why that someone has to be the _viscount_." She hissed this last word, noting more than a few pairs of eyes following them. She walked close to Anton, in case any thieves or ruffians got any ideas. "You have people who can do that for you, you know."  
  
"But dearest Aveline," Anton said in a sing-song voice, "you know how much I like to get my hands dirty."  
  
"Well, if you mean that literally, then Darktown is in fact the right place," Aveline drawled.  
  
Anton shrugged. "Better that than pretending to fill out paperwork. And, really, this is important. Would you let one of your subordinates handle something important when you were available to take care of it yourself?"  
  
"If there was paperwork I had to do and assassins after my head," Aveline countered in a harsh whisper, "then _yes_."  
  
"Oh, please, nobody's tried to kill me in at least three weeks. It's getting boring. I'm out of practise." Anton laughed and ducked into an alcove, finding stairs in the darkness without needing to look. "Did I ever tell you about this entrance? My brother almost got stabbed in the neck here, while we were still... doing things you don't want to hear about. But, considering that's how we got you into the city..."  
  
"I'd have gotten myself in, eventually," Aveline sighed, following Anton down into a dimly lit corridor. "And most people would take it as a sign of success not to have been threatened with death for three weeks."  
  
"I'm not most people. I thought you'd have noticed, by now."  
  
Merrill glanced around, taking in the mildewy sludge on the rough walls and the way the ground only looked firm until you put your foot on it. "It's so much less pleasant down here, without even Anders to look forward to."  
  
"I like Anders and all," Anton said, his words bouncing oddly off the rough walls, "but it was always my brothers who were 'looking forward' to him, so really this is about as pleasant as I'm used to it being." He smiled brightly back at Merrill over Aveline's shoulder.  
  
Aveline was only half listening to Anton, all too aware of just how much the three of them stood out. Maybe that was a problem in itself, that she, in a guard uniform, would stand out.  
  
Anton may have a point, though she would die before admitting that.  
  
Aveline watched as he struck up a conversation with a pair of strangers, seemingly oblivious to the wary looks they were giving him. "The man does not make my job easy," she muttered to Merrill.  
  
"If it were easy, would there be any point in it?" Merrill asked, crouching down to pick up a tiny frog. "A city where there's no work for the guard is a city that doesn't need them."  
  
"And that's where you're wrong." Aveline shook her head, eyes still on Anton chatting strangely easily with the locals, one of whom seemed to finally have recognised him from his days doing things Aveline tried not to think about. "You always need the guard and regular patrols, because otherwise, how do you know when things start to go wrong? If there's nobody doing the job, then there's nobody who knows how to do the job. There's nobody to put a stop to things before they get totally out of hand."  
  
"Then there's still work, isn't there? It's just a different kind." Merrill smiled at the frog and held it out to Aveline to examine.  
  
"Sure, but it'd still be easier than this. He makes a point of doing the stupidest, most dangerous things..." Aveline huffed and leaned down to get a closer look at the frog. "It's green and slimy."  
  
"It's adorable. And it's very healthy. And that means wherever it lives, there probably aren't too many people. And it's wet and full of tasty bugs." Merrill squinted at the frog. "It's a sewer frog!" she announced, a bit louder than expected, and the locals all turned to look.  
  
"Well, we are in a sewer," Aveline muttered, meeting the stares with one of her own. "'Wet and full of bugs' does not sound like an appetising place to be, and yet here we are."  
  
"Oh, where we are is not so full of bugs," Merrill countered. "More half full, than anything."  
  
Aveline eyed a bulbous spider on the wall next to her. "That's still more than enough." She fought down the urge to fidget, feeling imagined spider legs on her skin.  
  
Anton wandered back over to them as Merrill started considering names for the frog. "Did you know there was a whole city down here?" he asked.  
  
"A city?" Aveline narrowed her eyes. "You mean, because there are so many people down here?"  
  
"No, because I mean there was an actual city down here during the Imperium, and much of it is still intact!"  
  
"Of course there is," Merrill said, looking a bit confused. "Carver and I have been clearing the demons out of it for years, now. It's very nice, where the Coterie hasn't smashed the walls down trying to get in. Oh, and there's a wonderful spirit who's trying to map the Fade! I should check on the Exquisitor, while we're down here."  
  
"So, it's true about the demons, then?" Anton asked, face twisting in dismay. "They were telling me there were rumours of demons, and that's why everyone was still living out here, but I was hoping they were wrong."  
  
"Oh, it's much better, now!" Merrill smiled brightly. "There's almost no demons left. Except it's Kirkwall, so there's always demons. But, it's not worse than walking through Lowtown at night!"  
  
"That's not very good," Aveline pointed out.  
  
"No, but it is, for down here. Lowtown would be better, day or night, but people don't want to come up to Lowtown. Lowtown costs too much, and Darktown is mostly free," Merrill explained, putting the frog on Anton's shoulder. "We had to come down and check some things when the Alienage was being rebuilt. Make sure that our sewer lines weren't going through anyone's front room."  
  
"Well, how bad can it be, if you and Carver have been taking care of the demons? We've all fought demons before. Most of the time, they don't come back, once you kill them." Anton turned his head trying to see the frog. "We should see if anyone knows a way over to that part of things."  
  
"Down," Merrill corrected. "It's mostly below Darktown."  
  
"Down?" Anton shook his head. "If we keep going down any lower, we're bound to come out the other side." He gave the frog on his shoulder a friendly pat, face twisting when he felt just how slimy the creature was. "Ah, damn. Too bad Artie's out of town. I would have left this little guy in one of his shoes just to see how loud he would screech."  
  
"Oh, I'm sure Fenris know exactly how loud," Merrill replied.  
  
"Oh, ew, blegh. Now I hope we do run into demons, just so I'll have something to distract me from that thought."  
  
"Shouldn't we have brought Carver along for this?" Aveline asked as Anton smiled brightly at the next group of dejected inhabitants they came across.  
  
"Why? He's just as much a pain in my ass as demons would be," Anton tossed over his shoulder.  
  
Merrill opened her mouth, like she might have something to say about Carver and asses, but one sharp look from Aveline put a stop to that.  
  
As Anton chatted up the locals, another incongruously-dressed figure clambered out of a nearby sewer entrance, and Aveline couldn't tear her eyes away from the waves of perfect golden hair.  
  
"Do we have sewer-lords, now?" she hissed to Merrill, gesturing at the man. "Other than Lord Dog-that-peed-on-the-rug?"  
  
"Oh! He's certainly... Orlesian." Merrill studied him, too. "I don't think I've seen him around, before. I wonder if he's a merchant, and this is all some terrible prank. You saw the things the Hawkes went through. I've only heard."  
  
"The Hawkes were hardly merchants," Aveline muttered.  
  
"Yes, but they also weren't Orlesian." Merrill watched the man toss his hair back, shaking his head, and pull up the strap of what looked like a bundle of tools and a map case.  
  
Anton waited for the man to collect his things before approaching, all smiles. "Good day, serah!" he chirped, and finally sewer man took note of them, gaze flitting up Anton's fine, Orlesian-cut clothing and taking a moment to straighten and dust off his own.   
  
"And a good day to you, too," the man said, polite but confused. "Do I know you?"  
  
"Personally? No, and what a void there must be in your life because of it. Forgive the intrusion, but I was merely wondering what a man of your exquisite fashion sense might be doing in the sewers?"  
  
The stranger looked Anton up and down again, only then noticing the frog perched on his shoulder. "Oh, nothing you would find all that interesting, to be sure." He eyed the frog as he spoke before glancing past it at the two women behind Anton. "Who did you say you were?"  
  
"You can call me Lord Dog. Everyone down here does. Bit of a joke, but a good one." Anton offered what might be considered a friendly smile to anyone who hadn't sat across a card table from him.  
  
"He's the blighted Viscount of Kirkwall," Aveline snapped, "and don't ask me what he's doing in a sewer. I couldn't talk him out of it, but I guess that's just the fashion today."  
  
"I am not blighted!" Anton objected.  
  
"I don't think you can get the Blight from peeing on darkspawn," Merrill teased, reaching up to pet the frog.  
  
"You can't be serious." The stranger blinked at them.  
  
"No, I'm pretty sure she's right. You have to get the blood on you." Anton scratched at his chin, where the stubble was already starting to return.  
  
"This is the Viscount of Kirkwall? In a sewer?"  
  
There was a scuffling of footsteps from a nearby tunnel. "Viscount?" A head peeked out. "Tony! How you doing? What's with the fancy clothes? You just get out of a meeting?"  
  
"Just checking in to see what you guys still need down here. Now that we've got most things settled up top, I can probably spare some help for you." Anton reached out and shook the woman's hand. "You know where to find me, if you need anything, Lila."  
  
"Yeah, and I'll come up to the club, because they'll never let me in the door of the Keep," Lila scoffed, shaking her head. "Keep it down out here, will you? I'm going back to bed."  
  
"Viscount," Aveline said, gesturing at Anton again.  
  
The other Darktown dwellers watched at a careful distance. "Well, I didn't vote for him," one woman muttered to her friends before they went back to their business.  
  
Anton turned back to their new Orlesian friend with a smile.   
  
Sewer man sputtered, fidgeting with his fabulous hair, his tools still tucked under one arm. "Right. Viscount. Marco Belmayne, at your service." He stopped toying with his hair long enough to dip into a mini bow. "Forgive me. You are... not what I expected."  
  
"You mean not 'where' you expected?" Aveline drawled.  
  
"The dockhands described him as tall and swarthy," Marco replied. "But... yes, that too."  
  
Merrill guffawed before slapping a hand over her mouth. His smile frozen on his face, Anton muttered, "I am going to kill my brother."  
  
"At least wait to plot his murder when I'm not in earshot," Aveline said. "Regardless, messere, you have not answered the viscount's question. Why were you down there?"  
  
"Ah! I... er..." Marco sighed, looking at his heavily-stained boots. "I am a student from the university in Val Royeaux. My thesis is on the concurrent evolution of waste disposal in Thedosian cultures."  
  
"You're going to university to write about sewers." Aveline looked less than entirely impressed.  
  
"You're writing about the Tevinter toilets!" Merrill grinned excitedly. "Oh, have you seen them shoot flames? They shoot flames sometimes. I wouldn't want to sit on something that shot flames. At least not shot flames at me. Maybe if it shot flames at other people."  
  
"Like a dragon. You want to sit on a dragon," Anton assured her.  
  
"Not to pee!" Merrill protested.  
  
"No, that's his job." Aveline pointed at Anton, clearly wishing she'd sent someone else down with these idiots.  
  
"I do not _pee_ on dragons!" Anton protested, sounding like he'd had this argument before.  
  
Marco pulled several pages out of the map case and waved them at Merrill. "I can't believe the seals were so good that they still shoot flames! The decomposition puts off gasses, and when it gets too hot in the chamber, they catch fire. I mean, that's just a feature of closed-vault toilets."  
  
"Hang on," Aveline said, holding a hand up and closing her eyes, brow pinched as though warding off a headache, "I thought Merrill was speaking metaphorically. You mean the toilets _actually shoot fire_?"  
  
If Marco nodded his head any more eagerly his head would fall off his shoulders. "They are quite remarkable!"  
  
"Why..." Aveline struggled to grasp that concept. "What use could that possibly serve?" Marco started to explain again about gasses and ventilation, but Aveline waved for him to stop talking. "Whatever. We're in Kirkwall. Even the toilets are demonic."  
  
"So you were just in the Undercity?" Anton asked. "That tunnel you just came from, that's where it leads?"  
  
"Indeed!" Marco answered brightly. "Not the most comfortable entrance, but it gets me where I need to go!"  
  
"There's some actual doors, too, but I think we have them rune-warded," Merrill apologised, looking around in an attempt to figure out where they were. "I'm pretty sure I can't find them, though. I'm not very good with directions. Not in Kirkwall."  
  
"Everyone gets lost in this demonic construction. 'Who built this?' I'd say, but we all know it was Tevinter," Aveline huffed.  
  
"Master Marco, my scholarly friend, how would you like to give us a tour?" Anton put on his most charming smile as he turned and slung an arm around the Orlesian student. "We'll see if Lady Merrill recognises anything. She's a demon-hunter, you know."  
  
Marco flushed, stars in his eyes as he looked back and forth between Merrill and Anton. "You really want to know?"  
  
"I want your honest opinion. Is what's left down there fit to live in? Is the demon problem still significant?" Anton asked, leading Marco back toward the sewer entrance.  
  
"It's thousands of years old," Marco said, cautiously. "But, people are living up here, and it's definitely drier and more stable down there, even with the demons and the occasional toilet fire. There's not really that many demons, or I wouldn't be down there without help or a dog or something. But, you know, the Tevinters that built this place thought there were demons in the toilets, and that's what caused the fire. Great at magic, not so good at the proper sciences, sometimes. If they'd just put in vents, it would've been fine."  
  
"In fairness," Anton cut in, "if I was met with a great gout of flame right after relieving myself, my first thought would probably be 'demons' too."  
  
"Your first thought would be dragons," Aveline corrected from behind him.  
  
"Okay. My second thought would be of demons. Possibly a rage demon, angry about being shat upon."  
  
"I would have thought Despair," Merrill replied. "If I were a demon stuck in a toilet, that's what I would be."  
  
Marco lowered his tools by their strap again before descending after them. "Actually," he said, pausing with his head still above ground, "the Tevinters believed they were Remorse demons, going by the later inscriptions."  
  
Anton exchanged a look with Merrill. "As in, 'I wish I hadn't eaten that last night'?"  
  
"Or drank that much?" Aveline suggested.  
  
"So it appears. But, our records -- the Chantry records -- show no such thing, of course. These were peculiarly Tevinter demons, it seems, and most likely fictional." Marco stepped back from the base of the ladder to make room for the others.  
  
Anton descended first, talking as he climbed down. "So, there's no such thing as a toilet demon? And there's doubly no such thing as a demon of Remorse?"  
  
"If there are demons of Remorse, I doubt they're haunting ancient toilets. There must be better work in Val Royeaux, come festival time." Marco snorted.  
  
"But festivals are lovely," Merrill protested, climbing down after Anton, "even when they're for someone else's gods."  
  
"Festivals are great places to get robbed, get drunk, or wake up pregnant," Aveline corrected, bringing up the rear. "Remorse could have a great time, the day after a festival."  
  
"So, demons aside, are there any of these toilets nearby? That last cup of Nevarran roast and I would love to have a tour of one." Anton chuckled wryly. "I was expecting to find a convenient corner, as one does in Darktown, but if there are better options down here, by all means."  
  
"Oh, of course," Marco said, waving him along as he ventured down a narrow passage that gradually widened, almost enough for two to walk abreast in some places. As they walked, it started to look less like a tunnel and more like a hallway. "Any 'demons' and their wrath should be taken care of by now, after all my exploring. They are actually rather well-designed pieces, despite the ventilation issue, and I am pleased to find some so well intact and even in working order."  
  
Despite the assurance of 'no demons', Aveline's hand twitched, eager to hold a sword, just in case.  
  
"Oh, this looks familiar!" Merrill chirped, noting an inscription on the wall she could not read.  
  
"If it's familiar, then it must be demon free!" Anton declared, grinning broadly. "And now, to proceed to the nearest demon-free toilet, while the two of you get acquainted with the other excellent features of this abandoned city, and our charming host."  
  
"That way," Merrill declared, pointing down the hall.  
  
"Don't tell me you actually know where something is?" Aveline looked surprised.  
  
"Well, the other way is where we came from." Merrill laughed.  
  
"I should have stayed in my office. I'm sure there's paperwork piling up, even as we speak." Aveline sighed and followed the merry sightseers deeper into the depths of the theoretically demon-free Undercity. Which just meant there was more room for banditry and mobs.  
  
"This is the room I have been staying in," Marco explained, when they came to a particular door along one beautifully-engraved wall. "If you go another two doors down, you will find the public toilet for this section. It leads into an actual sewer, which is strange, down here, but it also means there haven't been any flammable explosions. I've had no trouble at all using it, except for the occasional rat or spider."  
  
Anton's pleasant smile tightened a bit at the mention of spiders, but he carried on. "Thank you, serah. You have been most hospitable." He made for the appointed door as quickly as decorum would allow.  
  
The others waited in the hall, and Aveline looked around at the inscriptions and simple reliefs along the walls, trying to make out the weathered shapes. "This is what my life has come to," she muttered, "following Anton around just so he can relieve himself while physically inside the sewers."  
  
From the hall, the three could hear Anton whistling to himself, some drinking song or other Aveline was sure Isabela had taught him. She rolled her eyes and ignored the sound... until the distracted whistling turned into a full-bodied screech.  
  
Merrill's hands lit up as Aveline drew her sword, and both charged down the hall toward the door Anton had disappeared into.  
  
"Get the door and go low," Merrill ordered, as Aveline made to kick the door open. "I do this all the time."  
  
Aveline could admit Merrill was the professional, this time. Certainly more professional than their viscount-turned-idiot, or maybe that was idiot-turned-viscount. She slammed into the door, which swung easily open, and dropped into a crouch, checking for Anton, as Merrill drew vines as thick as her leg out of the open toilet seats.  
  
"I should not have had that cup of coffee," Anton complained, from the corner. "And I shouldn't have come down here, today. Why did I think this was a good idea?"  
  
"Because you're a fucking idiot, Anton," Aveline snapped, lunging for the grey shape hovering around Anton. As her blade connected, she saw Wesley's dying face, and the sword nearly fell out of her hand.  
  
"Don't listen to it, Anton. You drank the coffee because you like it. You came down here because you needed to. Don't let it get to you! Stab it!" Merrill's vines twined around the shapeless, wispy thing that suddenly turned Tamlen's eyes on her.  
  
Anton shook his head, trying to clear it from the negative thoughts that crowded it. Remorse sat heavy in his stomach, and it was only in noting that weight that he realised what was going on. He had to laugh, even as he drew a dagger from a hidden fold in his fine Orlesian clothes.  
  
"I regret peeing on you," Anton told the formless creature. "Is that what you would like to hear?" He struck without waiting for an answer, expecting none, his dagger darting in in a blow to the gut that would have devastated a mortal opponent.   
  
The creature let out a wail that petered into a hiss. Dogged on three sides by three veteran demon fighters, it stood no chance, and soon it was more smoke than shadow, wisps trailing from it like streams of blood.  
  
"Demon-free?" Aveline scoffed, turning a scathing look on Merrill.  
  
"Mostly demon-free," Merrill corrected, picking her way around the demon-scorch on the bathroom floor, to check on Anton. "Are you all right?"  
  
"I'm glad that was just me, and not some poor blighter trying to move in. Where's the Orlesian? I thought he said he'd been using this one!" Anton laced up his trousers and put away his knives.  
  
"But, I have, Messere!" Marco cried, from outside the open door. "It is the sewer! It must have wandered in from somewhere else! The sewers do not shoot flames, but as the inscriptions say, they do still draw demons."  
  
"I thought you didn't believe in toilet demons," Aveline huffed, leaning in the doorframe.  
  
"I didn't," Marco admitted, "but, I have been corrected."


	141. Chapter 141

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artemis needs some time away from the site. Orana and Evantia appreciate the house he's not in.

Natia looked out upon their work like a queen surveying her kingdom. Repairing the temple had been a masterwork of collaboration, and now it stood tall and proud and whole, as beautiful as it must have looked back when it was first built. There were no longer tree branches and roots poking holes in the walls, and Natia could see it standing thousands of years from now. Well. One thousand, at least, considering it wasn't original dwarf work.  
  
She rested her hands on her hips and threw a beaming smile at the gangly mage next to her. "We do good work!" she proclaimed, clapping him on the back.  
  
"We do," Artemis agreed, pleased but distracted. He kept holding his hands up, forefingers and thumbs making right angles. "Are you sure the roof looks even? I could swear it comes down a bit more on the right side than the left."  
  
"The ground's not level to the same place you're standing," Murray pointed out, poking Artemis in the side and nudging his shoulder. "There, now you're at the same angle as the ground over there. You see it?"  
  
"Don't you remember that conversation?" Natia asked. "It was because there's that ridge over here, and if you hit it too hard, like forty feet of cliff is going to shear off."  
  
Junar took a large step to one side, squinting at the ground, as he tried to figure out where the fault line would open.  
  
"Look, Hawke, you need a holiday. You've been staring at this way too long," Natia went on, squinting up at Artemis. "Weren't you going to go visit your family, or something?"  
  
"Mm?" Artemis finally pulled his eyes away from the roof line. Natia might have a point about needing a holiday. "Ah. Not family. They're kind of... all over the place. But I was thinking of visiting our old home in Lothering, see if there's anything left."  
  
There was a good chance he wouldn't like what he found, but he needed to see it.  
  
"Lothering?" Murray blurted. "Wasn't that...? I mean..." He stuttered to a stop when Sheena nudged him in the ribs.  
  
Artemis nodded with a wry smile. "Hence the 'if there's anything left'."  
  
"I need to update Delilah on the progress here," Natia said. "Tell her about that second set of ruins Theron has been harping on about, but you should take someone with you. The Blight may be over, but there are still dangers."  
  
"I like to think my husband counts as 'someone'," Artemis teased.  
  
"Your husband is definitely someone, but he's someone who I can take in a fight, more often than not," Theron pointed out. "And it's not because he doesn't have the skills, if you know what I mean. So, I'm going with you, because I'm not letting you walk off into the woods without me again, and definitely not with someone who can only protect you half the time."  
  
"I can protect him all of the time, but if you think he needs it, you haven't been paying attention," Fenris pointed out. "Still, if you'd like to come along and protect me from his terrible aim..." He laughed easily and wrapped an arm around Artemis's waist.  
  
"That's what I'll do, then. He can show off his fancy new shield and throw rocks at things, and I'll just come along to make sure you don't get hit with them. It'll make a great story, later." Theron gestured with both hands, as if holding a sign. "The Shem-Tamer's Travels With a Dangerous Mage and His Delicate Elven Love. I bet I could make a book out of it. I wonder if Varric would help."  
  
"Does this mean you will be writing down this story?" Junar asked, a bit too hopefully. "Because if that means you will stop spouting poetry at the mouth, I am completely in favour."  
  
"Could I not do both?" Theron asked, grinning at Junar's disappointment.  
  
"I think your next poem should be about how much of an ass Junar is," Artemis muttered.  
  
"I'd much rather hear one about how fine his ass is," Natia countered. She winked at Junar and gave him an appreciative look. "A really long poem."  
  
Artemis looked nauseated.  
  
Junar cleared his throat. "Please do not create a poem about my ass," he asked, but the widening grin on Theron's face said he was too late. "Theron. Theron, I said, 'no'."  
  
Theron puffed out his chest and sucked in a great breath. "Today we sing of asses' asses, rumps for sitting, plump or scrawny--"  
  
Fenris clapped a hand over Theron's mouth. "We'll take him with us," he assured Junar.

* * *

* * *

  
Evantia stretched out across the bed in one of the infinite guests rooms in the Hawke estate. The Hawkes did live well -- soft sheets, huge beds, an enormous collection of Tevinter wines -- and the best part was that they so freely shared with her and Orana. She'd never seen another household where the servants and their friends were just part of the family. Of course, she'd also never seen another household with an _elven_ lord.  
  
She reached out to pour herself another glass, only to be interrupted by the sudden landing of small, fluffy feet on the other side of the bed. "Well, hello, kitty! Aren't you the sweetest thing?"  
  
The cat headbutted her hand, mashing its face against her palm.  
  
She could never remember which one was which -- they looked so much alike, except that one had a white chest and the other was ginger all over. Ser Purrcival, she hoped, stretching her fingers to scratch behind the fluffy little beast's ears.  
  
Not Purrcy, she discovered when her fingers were met with teeth. "Ow!" She cried out more in surprise than pain, making the cat jump to the far corner of the bed, where he crouched, ears back and tail flicking. "Sorry, Assbiter."   
  
That was his playful bite, Orana had explained. It generally didn't break skin, or if it did, it wasn't on purpose. Clicking her tongue, Evantia propped herself up on the pillows and tried to coax the cat back over, careful to watch him this time.  
  
Assbiter was still eyeing her in distrust when Orana glided into the room, looking concerned until she caught sight of the cat.  
  
"Assbiter is branching out to Fingerbiter," Evantia explained.  
  
"And Toebiter," Orana sighed, fixing the cat with a mock scowl. There was a reason they kept their bedroom door closed while they slept.  
  
"Yow," Assbiter declared, tail still flicking, expectantly.  
  
"Yow, is it, you fuzzy little nuisance?" Orana teased, side-eyeing the cat as she made her way over to the nightstand. "I've started keeping a bit of jerky in here, for these two. It's just so I haven't got to get up when they start, in the middle of the night."  
  
"That's smart," Evantia agreed, wiggling her toes at the cat, instead.  
  
This time, Assbiter looked interested, crouching lower against the bed as his eyes widened.  
  
Orana bounced the end of a bit of jerky off the top of his head, and Assbiter jumped up and shook himself, before laying back down to nibble at the meat he had to stretch his neck to reach.  
  
Orana climbed onto the bed next to Evantia, careful not to jostle too much in case she distracted the cat from his prize. "He's a cute little carnivore."  
  
Evantia hummed, leaning into her. "He's going to be a fat little carnivore at this rate," she teased. "Messeres Fartemis are going to wonder what you've been giving them." She reached pointedly for the wine, which she had left on the nightstand, on the other side of Orana.  
  
"No worse than what the messeres already give them." Orana handed her the wine. Before Evantia finished pouring, Assbiter was looking back up at them, licking his lips. "No. I have to save some for your brother." Still Assbiter wandered closer hopefully, nosing sniffing the air.  
  
"Mrf." Assbiter insisted, ramming his head into the bottom of Orana's foot.  
  
"Don't you 'mrf' at me, young man!" Orana scolded. "The rest of the jerky is for Purrcy."  
  
"Mrrf." Assbiter murred decisively, curling up around the foot and gnawing intently, if gently, at the side of it.  
  
"It's much better when Master Fenris is here. I understand his feet are tastier," Orana joked, nuzzling Evantia.  
  
Evantia squinted at the cat, contemplatively, and then flipped the blanket over him. The response was immediate: the lump of blanket sprung up, thrashing in all directions, as Orana eased her foot out of the way. After a few moments of excitement, the lump settled down into roughly a sleeping cat shaped lump.


	142. Chapter 142

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the road to Lothering, Artemis, Fenris, and Theron run into an unexpected problem.

Theron, it seemed, never ran out of words. Now that the three of them were out on the open road, his subject of choice was one of his favourite subjects: listing the assets of Artie's ass. Fenris contributed the occasional rhyme, and Artemis indulged them both with only a few eye-rolls.  
  
"I did not know so many words rhymed with 'posterior'," Artemis drawled, when finally Theron paused for breath.  
  
There was a rejoinder on the tip of Theron's tongue, but he held it, squinting off into the distance, at a group of figures passing their way. The glint of sun on metal spoke of plate armour.  
  
"What?" Artie teased, not noticing what he was staring at. "Have you finally run out of rhymes? Maybe you need some more inspiration." He took Theron's hand and clapped it firmly on his ass.  
  
"Delilah's lands, still, right? Or ...?" Theron squinted into the distance. "Something's coming up the road toward us in plate, and if that's just Delilah's guards checking for bandits, we're probably all right, though I didn't think she was sending them out six at a time. That's a lot of guards, if she's got patrols on the whole teyrnir. Assuming I actually know how big that is, for a moment, because I could be wrong, but I don't think I am."  
  
"It's the major road in and out. You can't get out of the wood any other way, unless you're Dalish," Fenris reminded him. "It's probably just that. You patrol more heavily where most people are going to be."  
  
"That's reasonable," Theron decided, turning his attention back to the warm, round shemlen ass in his hand. "Can the rest of you really not find your way out of the wood without a road?"  
  
"You're the one who told the story about the demon trees." Fenris rolled his eyes and clapped a clawed hand onto Artemis's other ass cheek, just to remind Artie he was there and just as interested as ever. "In my defence, I've never been to Ferelden, before."  
  
Artemis could make out the outline of the approaching figures now, and he wondered if this was what they could see: a pair of elves groping a human's ass. He made no move to disengage those hands. "As a native Fereldan, I would recommend staying out of the trees unless you're Dalish or desperate, yes."  
  
"And if you're a desperate Dalish?" Fenris teased with a glance at Theron.  
  
"Well, then you should probably just stay in the trees and forget the road altogether." Artemis's grin shrank as he got a better look at the approaching troupe, all wearing plate and long skirts, all bearing a silhouette that even now made his blood run cold. "Templars," he breathed. His long years on the run reminded him to stay calm, and he thought of his father and his perpetual smile. Taking a calming breath, he shifted his staff to his back, hoping the movement and the weapon wouldn't be noticeable.  
  
"We're just a few travellers to them," Theron reminded him, giving Artemis's ass one last appreciative squeeze before letting go. "They'll walk right by us."  
  
The templars all reached for their swords, at once, not drawing them, but making ready to. The one at the front spoke, first. "Where do you come from, and what business have you in the wood?"  
  
"We're architects working for Delilah Howe, out of Gwaren. We're working on that new Circle Tower the queen wants built," Theron told them, still smiling widely, like he wasn't standing next to a mage and a malfunctioning experiment from some magister's lab. "This one used to be an elven fortress, so she wanted some Dalish advice. Can you believe it? The Teyrn of Gwaren wanted advice from my clan! We're so happy to be working with her. It's been wonderful."  
  
"You notice anything strange in the forest?" The templar's eyes narrowed, as if Theron's answer were somehow suspicious, and Fenris noticed the glint of red in them.  
  
"Meredith," he whispered to Artemis, hoping his husband would understand what he was seeing.  
  
"Strange like what? It's the same forest it's always been. I grew up in this forest." Theron shrugged and glanced around.  
  
Whispering started, between the other templars, and a few phrases jumped out: "--didn't see it-- probably part of-- demon-- like a mage--"  
  
Artemis did indeed notice the red eyes, as well as the chains around their necks, each holding a glowing red vial that illuminated the Swords of Mercy on their chests with a sinister light. Red lyrium? In Ferelden?  
  
They were on edge, hands still on their swords, and Artie wondered if he could get off a spell before they dropped six smites in his face.  
  
"We've wasted enough of your time, good sers," Artemis said, the smile in his voice not at all betraying his fears or that he had half a spell ready at his fingertips. He started to move past them, the elves still flanking him. "Good luck on your travels. I hope the road is --"  
  
It only took one smite to knock the words out of his mouth. A second had him wobbling, even as he reached for the staff at his back, not even knowing that the smite wasn't aimed at him.  
  
The smites still stung the elves to his sides, but they weren't nearly as jarring, and both had leapt forward to draw their swords, before realising there wasn't enough space between Artemis and the templars. Theron rammed his elbow into one templar's chin, taking advantage of the assumption that he and Fenris would be crippled by the smite. Fenris lit his brands and rammed his hand into a templar's chest, easily crushing the man's heart before using the body to trip the next nearest templar.  
  
"And I'm not a mage, either," Fenris muttered, wondering, as he sometimes did, how true that really was.  
  
"You still with us, Artemis?" Theron asked, as he finally wrenched his sword free of the sheath into the space left by the templar crumpling to the ground before him. They'd started with six, and now they were down to four and a half, Theron thought, as he slammed his foot down on the fallen templar's neck, and the others leapt back from the unexpectedly dangerous elves. No, now it was only four, and those were odds he liked.  
  
"Yes," Artie grit out through his teeth, lashing out with frustration and his staff where his magic didn't respond. He jabbed the butt of his staff right in the face of one templar too focused on Theron's moves to notice. With magic, Artemis could have knocked the four of them on their ass by now. "I really hate smites."  
  
The two templars nearest Fenris backed away, their swords angled defensively, and Fenris applauded them for learning from their friend's mistake. Still, their swords were no barrier to Fenris as his markings flared to life, and he leaped inside their reach, snarling at their panicked shouts as his hand passed armour and skin to sink claws into one templar's heart.  
  
Fenris turned to face the second templar, savouring the look of horror in his red eyes as Fenris pulled his hand free... or started to, when the glowing lyrium lines flickered and dimmed. He stared down at where his hand was, still stuck inside the chest of one still-dying, still-screaming templar, and decided that screaming was, in fact, a very good idea.  
  
Artemis glanced over at his husband, still reaching instinctively for magic that was not there, and the blood drained from his face. "Oh, holy Maker," he breathed, darting to Fenris's side.  
  
The second templar recovered from his shock and swung at Fenris, who had just enough presence of mind to use the templar impaled on his hand as a shield, even as he scrabbled frantically to get his hand free.  
  
Artemis dropped his staff in favour of Fenris's fallen sword, just in time for his magic to come rushing back. Blue light flashed over his skin and, with a battle cry that sounded more like another scream, he swung blindly at the templar, the force behind his blow carrying the blade through the templar's block and through much of the templar himself, swinging Artemis completely around until the sword stuck fast into a tree.  
  
"Oh, for the love of Elgar'nan," Theron sighed, beheading the templar still stuck on Fenris's arm with a single blow, before returning his attention to the two templars slowly turning redder, in front of him. At first he thought it was the exertion -- summer and platemail made a bad combination -- until the creeping threads of red crystal began to show through their skin. "Artemis? A little help, please?"  
  
Fenris lurched forward at the impact against his arm, and then wobbled as the templar on it sagged heavily toward the ground, no longer even trying to escape him. Great. That weighed two of Artemis, easily, and he'd probably sprain something trying to use it as a weapon. It wasn't that he couldn't lift the weight, but normally, both his hands would be available and free to put where he needed them. His brands flickered and blinked, on the side closer to Artemis's new shield, but that wasn't the side that was stuck. Finally, he drew his knife and started carving, hoping to dig his hand free, while Theron took care of the last two.  
  
These last were stronger than Theron had anticipated, the first blow he blocked ringing down his sword and arm until he felt it in his teeth. Something about the red. Something about the change that was still happening. "Any time you want to start throwing rocks, I'll take them!"  
  
Artemis tried to yank the sword free but failed, afraid to use whatever new strength the ancient elf's magic had given him in case he accidentally brought the rest of the tree down on him. With a curse, he scooped up his staff instead and placed himself between Fenris and the templars, if they could still be called that. He obliged Theron, sending a stonefist into the creature closest, satisfied to see it hit the templar squarely in the face.  
  
Stone rose up out of the ground, wrapping around the templars legs up to their knees. It wouldn't hold them for long, but for now, Theron took advantage, dodging their blows instead of blocking as he dived around to the side, his sword seeking weak spots in their armour from behind.  
  
Fenris continued to chisel away at the muscle and bone holding his hand captive, trying to get enough of a hole to even wrench the breastbone free. That, he could work with. He'd fought in shackles.  
  
"You know," Theron panted, "this is stupid."  
  
Fenris looked up in alarm, just in time to see the head of one of the red lyrium infected templars roll across the ground toward him, and he kicked it away, remembering the horror Meredith had become. The other head followed shortly.  
  
Theron leaned on his sword, sweat running down his face, and reached for Artemis with his other hand, before jerking it away at the sight of the blood on it. If they were going to continue down this road, they couldn't look like they'd killed templars, even if he was pretty sure those things had been some kind of demon. "Would one of you like to tell me what the blight we just went a round with? I want to get it right in the story."  
  
Artemis glanced at Fenris, only to grimace at the sight of him hacking his hand free. Praise the Maker that those hands hadn't been in _him_ when that happened. "Templars," he said, "at least originally. Looks like the lot of them got their hands on some red lyrium, though I don't know how. Do you remember Meredith? What we said happened to her?"  
  
Theron's eyes grew wide, and he looked around at the slain templars. "They're not going to leap back up or anything, are they?"  
  
"No." Artie frowned. "At least I hope not."  
  
With a relieved sigh, Fenris finally pulled his hand free, his gauntlet dripping gore. "Regardless, we need to get off the road and clean ourselves off before someone else walks by and gets the wrong idea. I would rather not get my hand stuck in someone else's chest today."  
  
"For once I'm not the one suggesting a cleaning," Artie said wryly. "Though I definitely would, in this case, yes."


	143. Chapter 143

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of banter with Nathaniel and Delilah. Artemis returns to Lothering.

Nathaniel --  
See, I've sent a letter!

But, I need you to take a little holiday from your detour into Marcher politics. Aren't Wardens forbidden from holding office, anyway? I've got a potential darkspawn problem, in the wood, and I can't think of anyone better suited to handle it for me, than my dear brother. Assuming you don't get lost in the forest, like you did in the Deep Roads. We're running out of available Hawkes to send after you, but I can send one with you. 

Lord Hawke's team is restoring some ancient ruins for me -- I expect you'd have heard about it, if you weren't so bloody bent on keeping your head down -- and they anticipate trouble with darkspawn in one location, where their scholar had a run-in with them at the start of the Blight. I need a Grey Warden, and you're the best one I know.

Your sister (in case you've forgotten),  
Delilah

P.S. Are you and Elissa getting married, yet? You've been sitting in one place for three whole years, and you're both still speaking to each other!

  
Delilah --

Congratulations on remembering how to write. If you are imagining my face as you are reading this, please imagine that it looks impressed.

As much as I would enjoy throwing myself at some Fereldan darkspawn for nostalgia's sake, I am a bit too entangled in a diplomatic mission involving the prince and his princess-consort to pull away. Before you ask, no, you do not want the details. I can, however, put you in contact with some other fine Wardens, assuming Solona can spare them, and assuming that Warden isn't Oghren.

Your long-suffering brother,  
Nathaniel

P.S. No, we are not getting married. There's a war on. That would be tasteless.

  
Nathaniel --  
Assuming you are Nathaniel? 'There's a war on'? 'It would be tasteless'? Tasteless? My brother? I shall have to send guards, serah. I suspect an impostor. My Nathaniel is the very epitome of Fereldan stereotype. Tasteless would never give him pause, though sometimes I suspect tasteful might.

Oh, indeed, a 'diplomatic' mission, is it? Spare me even the slightest hint, if you are up to what Elissa's smirk suggests. That, too, though seems little like the brother I knew, but under the debauching influence of the Couslands, perhaps that might come to pass.

[Here there is a scribble as if there were a struggle for the pen.]

My mistake. She claims you were thoroughly debauched before you left for the Marches the first time. I shall drink to excess, until I forget that.

I shall await the arrival of your second-rate Wardens.

Your increasingly suspicious sister,  
Delilah

P.S. Can you not forget Thomas's birthday, this year?

* * *

* * *

Artemis walked across hills he and his siblings had played along as children, but he didn't recognise them. Tall grass had withered to reveal bald patches, the dirt a dusty red where once it had been a muddy brown. The trees were skeletons, and even the sky above seemed marked, turning a sobering grey. It wasn't until the road took them past the hills, until Artemis spotted the outlines of buildings, that he realised where they were.

Artie swallowed past a lump in his throat and tried not to think of the Anderfels and the dry wasteland they had found there, tried not to draw comparisons to this, the one place before Kirkwall he had thought of as 'home'. He had known he would find blighted land and deserted buildings, but that still hadn't prepared him for the desolate sight before him.

Turning a mirthless smile on his companions, Artie gestured in front of them and said, "Welcome to Lothering."

"Well, I feel a little less bad about dragging you out into the ruins of the elven empire," Theron joked, looking around. "This... Just the darkspawn did this?" He crouched and ran his fingers through the dead earth at his feet, realising how lucky the forest had been, after he and Tamlen had let them in.

"Wipe your hands," Fenris said, offering one of the seemingly infinite cloths he'd started carrying when he married Artemis, just in case he needed to wipe blood or grime off something. "I'd say you don't know where that's been, but it's worse. You do."

"Shit." Theron shook his head and took the cloth, realising Fenris was right. There was no telling how bad this was, if even grass wouldn't grow in it. "It's a good thing we stopped in that last town. I wouldn't want to eat anything that we found here. Not seeing this."

"Assuming we even would find anything here," Artemis replied, looking a little sick past his pasted-on smile. He led them on, towards the hollow buildings. "According to mum, a few of the townspeople came back after the Blight was over and tried to rebuild, but the land was ruined."

He could see evidence of that rebuilding, houses patched and repaired where they had been ransacked, the ruins of burned houses cleared away, leaving only the scarred foundations. Artemis was grateful for the attempt, if only because that meant someone had seen to the dead.

Artie pointed out a few landmarks as they went, the ones that remained, and told stories about the ones that didn't. "And I perhaps spent a little too much time there," he said, pointing out the tavern, which had been patched up before being abandoned again. "In my defence, I was only arrested once." Telling stories made it easier, he found, like he was bringing back a piece of what once was.

"Once?" Fenris asked, lifting an eyebrow inquisitively. "For drunkenness?"

"You know what he's like when he drinks," Theron pointed out, turning a lecherous grin on Artemis. "Tell us all about it. Maybe we can manage a re-enactment, but without the arrest. Of course, I think I see a sign for the guard, over there, so if you're into that..." He hoped the distraction would be enough to lift the mood a bit. Some foolish fantasy might make the place more bearable. He'd never been there before, but the dead air, alone, was enough to turn it oppressive.

That startled a laugh out of Artemis. He coughed and rubbed the back of his neck. "You are the right track with that guess. I had a few drinks, took a man out into the alley... and ended up arrested for indecent exposure. Along with my brother, who was up to the same sort of trouble on the other side of a stack of crates."

"That does sound like something Anton would do." Theron nodded, eyeing the depressions in the dirt that looked like they'd once regularly held crates of bottles. "Whoever she was, I hope she was pretty."

"'She' and 'Anton'," Fenris scoffed, putting the pieces together from scraps of stories he'd heard over the years. "Yes, of course. It couldn't possibly have been Lord Screams-a-lot."

"Are you kidding me?" Theron snorted, waving a hand dismissively. "Cormac was a gentleman and a scholar. I'm sure any good times he was having were at least indoors. I never really took him for the drunk in an alley sort. Anton, though? That's got the viscount written all over it."

Artemis had to put a hand over his mouth to stifle his snorting laughter. He composed himself and patted Theron's arm. "You really have not spent much time with Cormac, have you?"

Theron's eyebrows shot up towards his hairline, and he looked again at the spot Artemis had indicated. "Really?"

"Really," Artie assured him with a wide grin. "Though it might amuse you to know that he thought _I_ was Anton, when he heard there was another Hawke getting frisky nearby."

"Not a baseless assumption," Fenris said. "Alleys are dirty, and Anton is... Anton."

"I think you mean 'and Anton is dirty'," Theron corrected with an eyebrow waggle.

"I would say that's no way to talk about the viscount," Artie sighed, "but... that is exactly the way to talk about the viscount. And the little shit told dad on us instead of bailing us out, by the way."

"You know, sometimes I miss Tamlen, and then you tell stories like this, and I remember exactly how much of a pain in my ass he really was." Theron laughed and tossed an arm around Artemis. "Brothers, right? Nothing for it. Not all of us can be Dirthamen and Falon'Din."

"And you've met my sister, though I doubt I'd ever find her in ... quite those situations. Perhaps refusing to bail me out, though. That does sound like Varania." Fenris thought for a moment. "Of course, that would require me being arrested first, which I can say has never happened."

"If you want the experience, I can suggest it to Aveline, when we get back," Theron offered with a lopsided grin. "Come on, Earthquake Boy, what's next on the exciting tour of the best places you ever shook the earth in Lothering? Or, you know, anything else memorable, but those seem like good places to revisit. And I still hold we can improve your memory of them."

Artemis huffed. "Well, I don't think I ever actually 'shook the earth' there, but..." He pointed out a patch of earth, the charred outlines of a building's foundation still visible. "That used to be barn, where I would go to meet Gantry." Of course, his most vivid memories of that barn involved the times he had accidentally walked in on Cormac with Gantry. "Poor soul never made it out, from what I hear."

Gantry hadn't deserved that. None of the townsfolk had deserved that.

"Ah, _that_ barn," Fenris murmured, sliding an arm around his husband's waist and trying to coax him back to fonder memories. "Walls that had seen much, I imagine."

"That barn?" Theron shot a curious look at Fenris.

"None other," Fenris replied, with a faintly smug smile.

"And 'Gantry' doesn't sound like a very elven name," Theron went on, looking around. "Was this place even big enough for city elves?" He'd mostly stopped saying 'flat-ears' after he married one.

"It's a preference," Fenris said, rolling his eyes, "not a necessity."

"Suggestive, but not actually the answer to either question," Theron retorted, trying to get a feel for the town. "I bet you lived in the biggest house here, a family like yours. Did you have your own room? Did every strong and handsome elf in the arling come to throw pebbles at your window at night?"

Artemis laughed, leading them farther down the road, towards their old house, and just thinking of it caused his stomach to twist. "There was, alas, a shortage of elves in Lothering, much to my dismay. And no, I did not have my own room. Cormac and I shared, also much to my dismay."

"Ah, then perhaps it is a good thing no elves threw pebbles at your window," Theron said. "They might have ended up with the wrong Hawke, and what a surprise that might have been!" He was about to say something about expecting a halla and getting a bear, but he would rather not get thrown through a wall.

Artemis shrugged and offered a wry smile. "I had to be careful back then, anyway. Dad would not have appreciated earthquakes in the house."

"Anton has implied a great many things your father did appreciate in the house," Fenris pointed out. "I'm not certain he'd have much room to complain about the occasional earthquake."

"Didn't you tell me the two of you had to earthquake-proof your house?" Theron reminded him, side-stepping some sharp bramble that had tried to grow in the road. "I'm sure he wouldn't have had much room to do anything, if the roof fell in. I still bet it's the biggest house in town. These are all pretty small, after Denerim. But, didn't you tell me you used to live in an aravel, when we met?"

Fenris paused. He'd heard all about Lothering and all about Amaranthine and a dozen little towns Artemis couldn't remember half the names of, but he hadn't given much thought to how a family of seven people must've travelled. In his mind, they were one place and then another, which he knew couldn't be right, but an _aravel_?

"A wagon," Artemis said with a soft chuckle, thinking back to nights sleeping out under the sky, usually next to Cormac. Always next to Cormac. "Same basic idea. We tried to settle down in Honnleath, but then my magic happened." Artie looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers without even thinking about it. "And later Bethany's magic happened, and... I never really called any place home before Lothering."


	144. Chapter 144

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artemis explores his long-abandoned family home, explaining things to Fenris and Theron.

He half-expected their old house to be nothing more than a charred outline in the ground, like the old barn had been, but then he looked up to see its silhouette as he remembered it. Old memories surfaced, details filling in against that backdrop, which suddenly seemed smaller now. It had seemed plenty big at the time, but now Artemis was spoiled with a mansion, shared only with Fenris, Orana, and a pair of cats.

Behind him, Theron whistled appreciatively. "If I'd had a place like this, you'd never have gotten me out of Ferelden. This is nice. And wooden." He moved past Artemis to get a closer look at the house, drawing his sword as he closed on it, just in case it wasn't as abandoned as it looked. "Don't get me wrong, stone is great, but there's just something elven about dwelling in wood."

"And there's a joke about elven wood that neither of us are going to make," Fenris added, scratching idly at the rash along the lines in his arm, where he'd gotten it stuck in that templar's chest. The exposure hadn't really done any harm, except that now his arm itched again. He'd send for a salve, when they got back to Gwaren. Aveline would probably pick it up from the clinic without asking too many questions, and the post from the Marches was fairly regular. Another month or two, at the worst, and he'd be fine.

"Didn't somebody tell me that rural Ferelden shemlen had some traditions about turnips?" Theron asked, squinting across another dead stretch of field. "I might've been interested in learning those, if there were any turnips to be had in this place."

"Alas, I suspect what turnips were here are now long gone," Artemis said, feigning deep regret. The door pushed open easily, as though the door-frame had given up trying to hold it in place, and Artemis stood for a moment in the doorway, patting the wood frame as though greeting an old friend. There were scars in the wood, claw marks that had not been there when he'd left, that fateful night before marching to Ostagar.

The place had clearly been ransacked and looted, much of the furniture gone, the rest in pieces. Artie had expected no less, yet he kept expecting it to change back to how he remembered it each time he blinked. This should not have happened, not to the place where his father had died, not to the place where they had all lived.

"Well, come on in," Artemis said with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. "I would offer you a seat, but..."

Fenris put his arms around Artemis, gently, and Theron went on pretending nothing was wrong.

"A little dusty, but not bad. I've seen worse ruins -- we've just come from one." Theron grinned and made for a cupboard the locks had been snapped off of, expecting some sort of long-forgotten booze. Instead, he found books. Heretical texts, at a glance, some of them in Tevene. 'Questioning the Chant', by some magister stood out to him, and he drew it out of the shelf, carefully, showing the spine to Fenris, as he opened it. "You couldn't move these across the sea, could you?"

Other shelves held hand-written copies of texts with titles that were familiar to him -- these were Cormac's copies of Paivel's stories, and it was a terrible shame they'd been left here for so long. He thought he'd send those back to the library on Sundermount, if Artemis didn't want to keep them. Another shelf was obscure magical theory, mostly in Tevene. He'd seen some of _those_ books in Artemis's library in Kirkwall.

A twice-locked cupboard of books... It still stunned him that anyone would go to the trouble.

Artemis joined Theron by the cupboard, his eyes lighting up at the sight of the books. "They're still here!" He pulled down a book on Tevinter history, just to feel the weight of it in his hands. He could picture his father, standing in front of this cupboard with a book in his hand, and Artie knew he couldn't leave them here, heretical or not. "Do you think we can bring them back with us?"

"Well, at this point I suspect you've done a few things to piss off the Chantry worse than carrying a few books," Theron said. "We'll just have to figure out how to move them."

Artemis wondered how dangerous it would be to ship off a few of these to Cormac.

"We will send them to Anton, specifically. There is no one in all Kirkwall fool enough to pick through crates with your brother's name on them, after the Tevinter garden furniture." Fenris offered a tiny smile, as he took down a tome detailing the history of the Andrastian faith and the reasons Andraste must have been a mage. Paging through it, he was struck that he could read it. Of course he knew how to read, now. He'd struggled with it for years, with Artemis's help, but when this book was left here, he'd never dreamed of reading. It had seemed like a leisure pursuit for people who had things like time in which other people weren't trying to kill them.

"That's probably much safer than sending them to your sister," Theron agreed, slipping the book he held back into the shelf. "Or Varric. Can you imagine? Someone would throw them in the harbour on principle."

"Anton is the perfect blend of noble, reckless, and shameless. No one truly wants to know what he's involved in, but he'll tell you at the least provocation." Fenris shook his head and also set his book back in the slot it had come from.

"Hey, are any of your clothes still here?" Theron asked, suddenly. "What were you wearing, then? Still dressed like the second son of a farmer, or were you working on your own style, instead of just Cormac's old things? I mean, I saw what you were wearing in Lowtown, but... no one was dressed in their best, there."

"Why, are you thinking of tearing it off him?" Fenris scoffed, rolling his eyes at Theron from just beyond Artie's shoulder. "You might have to wait until we get back to camp. I don't think there's going to be nearly as much charming memory to exploit in these ruins."

"No, I just wanted to see if the family fortunes had changed, after they settled down. He was a travelling apple-picker when we met and a refugee when we met again." Theron shrugged, but turned an appraising look on Artemis. "On the other hand, don't you have a bed around here somewhere, that you never got to put to its proper use?"

Artemis gave him a wry look. "Hoping to see if it matches up with your fantasies?" he asked, putting away the book so he could lead them farther into the house, dodging debris as he stepped. "As for the clothes you didn't get to tear off me, I'm afraid they weren't all that exciting. Fashion was always more Anton's thing."

Fenris hummed. "I think I would prefer 'not exciting' to all those Orlesian ruffles."

"Which is why you ended up with the correct Hawke," Theron quipped.

Fenris gave him a dry look. "I don't think clothes had much to do with that."

"More like the lack of it," Artie said, clearing some debris from his bedroom door so he could open it. "Then again, have you seen your ass in leather, Fen? It's almost a religious experience." Finally, he shoved the door open, feeling the bottom scrape across the floor. He had forgotten it did that on occasion, and there were scars in the floor in the shape of the door's arc. Artemis looked around the room and frowned, scratching at his arm. "It looks like I'll have to disappoint you on that bed, Theron."

Theron pointed to the bed on the other side of the door. "It's right there. Is it too dirty? I'm sure we can find some less dusty linens somewhere. Or you could put me on the bed, first, and I'll ... well, I was going to say I'd keep you from getting dirty, but we both know that's a lie."

Fenris squeezed into the room, around Artemis, crouching down to examine a pile of dried, crushed leaves that looked like they'd have fallen off the bed that had been moved. He took a pinch and held them up, trying to get a scent, but however many years it had been had destroyed any distinguishing characteristics the stuff might once have had. It was some kind of plant, but that was all he could be sure of.

"Wait, grab that stick and hold it up?" Theron watched Fenris prod at the leafy pile, taking a long look at the one stalk that had been left. "Is that _rashvine_? Go wash your hands, before you start scratching any more than you are."

Fenris crushed some between his fingers and sprinkled it back into the pile. "It's been here too long, whatever it is."

"That little shit," Artie muttered, narrowing his eyes at that rashvine pile, which sat right where his bed used to be. "Cormac must have left them in my bed after he found out I'd gone to Ostagar." Artemis tipped his head in the direction of the one bed still there. "And that is my brother's bed, which, yes, is too dirty on top of being my brother's."

Theron blinked, considered the bed and the wide open space next to it, and tilted his head. "Why would they take your bed and leave his?"

"Likely the smell of bear scared them off," Fenris drawled. He twisted to look at Artemis over his shoulder. "And did this bear make a habit out of putting rashvine in your bed? If so, it is good for him that he stopped when you moved in with me."

"Only when I managed to supremely piss him off," Artie replied. "An idea he got from me, one time I was supremely pissed at _him_." The room felt off-balance with just the one bed, and Artie itched to clean... something. It wasn't as bad as their mansion had been when the corpses had still lived in it, but still, Artie had no idea where he would even start.

"Well, it's a bit late for revenge, now, but..." Theron grinned and backed toward the bed. "You could pretend. He left you rashvine. You could leave him the wet spot. Wouldn't even just be revenge for the rashvine. That first time when he kicked the door open on us and I thought I was going to die... Die happy, sure, but still die."

"Kicked the door open?" Fenris choked back a laugh. "I've heard about your first time. Are you sure there was a door left to kick?"

"I'm pretty sure the entire camp was not staring into my aravel, but thanks for putting that in my head." Theron set his sword aside and sat down on the edge of the bed, raising a cloud of dust from the thin, motheaten blanket. Coughing, he stood up and waited for the air to clear, dusting off his trousers. "I think the ruins were less dusty! Ten years versus a thousand..."

A strange light settled in the corner of his eye, but he waited until he'd folded the blanket out of the way, to comment on it. "I know Natia would say it's impossible, but just think -- a thousand years from now, some kids are going to sneak off to these ruins. I hope this place makes them as happy as so many old places made us."

"Well, I can tell you no one's going to get 'happy' in the ruins of my old bedroom," Artie replied, folding his arms and leaning against the door jamb. "Dirty and blighted doesn't really do it for me, no matter how temptingly you keep patting those sheets."

Theron supposed the small puffs of dust weren't really helping his case. Theron heaved a sigh and gave Fenris a doleful look. "I tried."

Fenris declined to mention that 'dirty and blighted' summed up the Deep Roads rather well, and yet here he and Artemis were.

"Try again later," Artemis suggested, giving Theron a smirk as he ducked back out into the hallway, wondering if the other rooms were just as trashed, if any other beds had been stolen or just his.

Theron followed Artemis into the hallway and opened a random door. "Your sister?" he asked, taking in the panorama of carefully wired animal skeletons and pale-blue frills.

"Unless you think Anton's changed that much over the years," Fenris drawled, trying another door. A glance left him somewhat uncertain which brother this room had belonged to, until he caught the thin silk scarves on the corner of the dressing table and the lipstick marks on the mirror. "Speaking of Anton..."

The elves traded doors, each looking for different clues as to the lives of the family that had lived there, versus the family they knew.

"There's a skull missing," Fenris pointed out, gesturing to a careful arrangement of skulls on a wide metal stand. "Nevarran; Black Age, according to the label."

"You've already met that one," Artemis said, pleased to see that at least some remnants of their old life were still here. "Bethy brought it with us to Kirkwall." How Bethany had managed to carry a skull all that way without damaging it was a mystery to Artie.

"Ah. The one in the library?" Not that Fenris could be sure. Bethany had more than one Nevarran skull, each one as neatly labelled as these were. "Would you like to ship these back to your sister? It looks like she put quite a bit of care into her displays."

Artie made a face. "Definitely not. Bringing back a pile of books is one thing, but I'm not touching those. If she wants them, she could come get them herself."

Theron had moved into the next room as they were speaking, this one spare compared to the other two. There was a grey thing on the ground he thought was more debris until he stepped on it, finding it soft, giving easily under his boot. Further inspection revealed it to be a plush toy, a little misshapen and worse for wear. Theron couldn't help but coo at it as he picked it up, wondering which tiny Hawke it had belonged to.

Fenris looked confused, at first, wondering why Theron was cooing at a ball of dust, until he took a closer look. "Is that supposed to be a dog?"

"It's a mabari! Look at it!" Theron ruffled the cloth and gave it a good shake before he held it out to Fenris. "And it looks like somebody tried to make it more authentic, too. It's got paint on it." He noted Fenris's confusion. "The nobles all paint their hunting dogs with weird swirly runes. It's supposed to make them more powerful or something. I don't know, I saw a lot more dog than noble, until I got to Denerim."

Fenris eyed the dusty dog-shaped thing, picking out the grimy red lines on it. "You're sure it's not supposed to be wounded?" he asked thinking of the magical effigies Danarius had chided as being lesser magic, which never stopped him from using them, when no one was looking. Dispensing with one's enemies was always more important than doing it glamorously.

"That's warpaint," Artemis assured him, voice shaking with laughter. He held out his hands for the toy, which Theron handed over, the grime on its surface making Artie's skin itch. "Carver used to carry this thing with him everywhere, introducing everyone to his fearsome mabari. Mum used to scold him for sucking on the ears."

"I'm surprised he didn't bring it with him to Ostagar then," Theron joked. "His fearsome mabari versus the darkspawn hordes!"

"Well, by then Carver denied he still had the thing, though we all knew he still slept with it under his pillow."

"By then, Carver had a mabari tattoo instead," Fenris drawled.

Artemis shuddered. "Please don't remind me. And, this?" He held up the toy. "We are definitely bringing with us just so I can show it to Merrill."

"That's evil," Theron declared, grinning. "I can't wait to see her face. I can't wait to see his face, when he finds out."

"That's going to be quite an experience, particularly when he figures out you had something to do with it," Fenris said to Theron, one hand idly seeking out Artemis's waist, so he wouldn't start scratching again.

"And this time it'll be so much easier to pretend he hates it, because I touched it!" Theron chuckled and examined the floor for more interesting but nearly unrecognisable detritus. "It's not food, so he won't just be waiting for me to leave, before he eats it."

"No, he'll be waiting for you to leave before he cuddles it. I wonder if he can juggle his fearsome mabari and Merrill at the same time." Fenris paused. "On second thought, don't tell me. There are things in this world I would rather not know."

Artemis cackled, leaning into his husband's touch. He reached up to set the mabari on Fenris's shoulder, its floppy legs keeping it balanced. "Hopefully he'll just keep it under his pillow, and you won't have to think about it."

Fenris craned his neck to catch a look at the dirty plushie, the ear closer to it twitching. "I would still rather not consider anything that may be on or near Carver's bed."

Theron continued poking around Carver's room, looking for more embarrassing childhood memories. Artemis glanced back at the last door in the hallway and chewed at the inside of his lip.

"Your parents' room?" Fenris asked, following Artemis's gaze, careful to keep the mabari balanced on his shoulder as he moved.

Artemis hummed, unsure if he wanted to disturb it. "With the door closed, I can pretend no one has touched it." He gave Fenris a helpless smile and shrug. Seeing their house so empty left a hollow feeling in his chest, but he reminded himself that this was no longer home, anyway.

"Do you want to stay here, tonight?" Theron asked, taking Artemis's hands. "Or maybe that tavern? That looked like it still had a sturdy roof over it. You can say no, but if you want to be able to pack this and send it, we shouldn't go too far."

"If you want to go, it's best we pass the line where the plants stop growing," Fenris pointed out, in full agreement with Theron that it might be time to get Artemis away from this place, for a bit. "But, in town, I suspect a closed room is safe enough. I do not see bodies, here. Neither people nor animals -- not more than one would expect with animals, anyway. As long as we eat what we've brought, we'll be all right, either way."

"The water might still be all right." Theron looked contemplative. "People tried to move back, didn't they? It's just that nothing would grow? I don't think we're in danger from more than nostalgia and maybe termites, if we stay."

"Perhaps more to the point," Fenris said, "would you like to go outside? You're looking... unwell." It wasn't unwell, exactly. It was the cousin to the look Artemis got, thinking too much about Cormac. And Fenris wished very much that Cormac had been with them, for this -- someone else who had been here, before.

Artemis let out a soft, self-deprecating laugh. "Just... sad. Makes me miss my parents, a little." When Fenris pulled him in tighter against his side, Artie went willingly. The movement jostled the mabari toy, but Theron caught it before it could hit the floor, putting it on Fenris's other shoulder. "But yes, we should probably leave before I start cleaning the place and making you help me. The tavern is fine." He was eager to be back outside, where even the blighted air didn't feel so tight.

"In that case," Theron said, following the couple out the door, "I expect you to give us more details about this night you were arrested."

"Are you looking to re-enact it," Fenris asked, "or to make it into a poem?"

The thought startled a horrified laugh from Artemis.

"Why not both?" Theron asked innocently.


	145. Chapter 145

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian wakes after an exciting night. Jenet and Nathaniel try to decide how to handle things without him.

Warm. Sebastian's first thought was that it was an incredibly warm morning, and the softness against his skin was comforting. Whatever was going on, today, he didn't much want to get up and deal with it, which wasn't unusual, but that was usually a result of whatever he was anticipating, rather than his bed being strangely comfortable and his entire body being slightly sore and about the consistency of a sloppy pudding. No, he wasn't getting up. Jenet could handle today. Tomorrow was soon enough, unless someone was threatening to invade, and really, even that Jenet cold probably handle, but it'd be the sign of a weak prince not to put in an appearance.

He buried his face in the smell of violets, that almost-sweet smell thick on his tongue, winding around his tired memory. Flashes of tastes and sensations darted across behind his eyelids, and he could feel a stirring against his thigh. He'd had quite a dream, clearly. If only he could remember all of it. If only he could actually do those things when he wasn't asleep.

The warmth pressed against his cheek shifted, and he realised that he had Bethany in his arms and that the softness was not the Orlesian silk sheets, but her skin pressed against him, all the way down his body.

"G'morning," Bethany mumbled, rolling over and nudging a thigh between Sebastian's. She yawned and tucked her head under his chin, still half-asleep.

"Morning," Sebastian answered, more on reflex than actual thought. Slowly his brain filtered through sensations, trying to match them to what he was seeing and hearing, shaking himself fully awake just to see if he was still dreaming. But the sensations only intensified, the smell of violets thick in Bethany's hair, her soft skin warm and inviting.

Bethany hummed, eyes still closed, and a slow smile spread across her face. She shifted again, thigh brushing him in a way that could only be intentional. "Sleep well?"

Sebastian stammered out something polite and positive while he tried to piece together the rest of his 'dream'.

Bethany made a small disgruntled sound. "You were so relaxed, just before. Stop flexing and twitching so much, it makes a terrible pillow of you."

A pillow. Sebastian could almost accept that, except for the way her leg pressed against him. If that was the way she held pillows, he hadn't been paying nearly as much attention as he'd thought. "I, erm... Did we...? Did anything ... unusual happen last night? I had the strangest dream."

"Less wine, next time," Bethany suggested, with a gentle snort against his neck. "But, with a little practise, you're going to be very good at that." She nuzzled under his chin, one hand uncurling from where it clenched between her breasts and firmly caressing her husband's bottom. "If you haven't any meetings this morning, I'd be happy to try again."

Sebastian couldn't concentrate enough to say whether or not he did, and he was inclined to cancel them anyway, if so. If he was ready to 'try again' or not, there was no way he would be able to concentrate on those meetings, caught between amazement that he had finally succeeded and chagrin that he barely remembered a thing.

"I would like that," he said, even if he wasn't sure 'no wine' was the right amount of 'less wine'. He wanted to remember everything this time, even if everything turned out to be him backing out again. He rested a hand on her bare hip, caressing the skin there and still marvelling at its softness. He was not so bold as to reach right for her bottom the way Bethany had with his, and she proved her boldness again by throwing a leg over his and sliding on top of him, her smile promising wicked things.

"I will make sure that you do," Bethany purred, brushing back hair made wild with sleep.

* * *

Jenet eyed the candles on the wall nervously, as he checked the time again and again. Sebastian wasn't late. He didn't do late. He practically leapt from his bed every morning to shake the guilt of sleeping next to his wife, and Jenet and Nathaniel both knew it. Still, the throne remained empty, and the single petitioner remained outside the door.

"Where is he?" Jenet hissed to Nathaniel, who leaned insouciantly against the wall, between banners.

"I'd venture a guess, but I don't think the moons are in alignment for that sort of miracle." Nathaniel shrugged the shoulder he wasn't leaning on. "But, if I'm right, we're not going to see him before supper, at the earliest."

"This is absurd!" Jenet struggled to keep his voice down against the echoes built into the room. "Of all the times he could have this revelation, he does it _now_?"

"It's Sebastian," Nathaniel sighed, giving Jenet a look that would've been sympathetic if his eyes had any life in them. "He's always inconveniencing someone, but usually it's me. Or Lord Amell. Or your father, for that matter."

"Fuck my father!" Jenet exclaimed, and the exclamation rang off the walls, leading him to flinch and then turn a sharp eye on Nathaniel. "Metaphorically. Please don't."

"Don't look at me!" Nathaniel held up his hands defensively. "Elissa, maybe, but not me."

"You're not helping."

"There is no help for this. He's not coming." Nathaniel paused. "Sebastian, not your father, though I suppose he isn't either. And really, if Sebastian's--"

"Don't say it." Jenet jabbed a finger at Nathaniel.

"Don't say...?" Nathaniel's cheeks coloured as the implication sank in. "Again, I believe you have confused me for Lady Cousland. I am not nearly so well dressed, nor so beautiful."

"I'll give you both of those points, without argument," Jenet muttered, stalking toward the door to handle the irate noblewoman beyond it.

From where Nathaniel leaned, he could hear half the conversation, Jenet's precise, crystal-clear speech making the best use of the room's acoustic features.

"I'm afraid the prince is indisposed, this morning. ... No, it is a private matter, and I will not discuss it." Here, a longer pause, after which Jenet's voice went from crisp to sharp enough to cut glass. "You may deal with me or try again next week."

Nathaniel sank back between the curtains, as the waiting woman apparently elected to deal with Jenet instead of waiting for Sebastian. For a moment, he very nearly managed to feel bad for his friend.


	146. Chapter 146

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anton and Carver get a surprise package from Ferelden.

Anton had spent the last few hours schmoozing with the Council, still trying to charm them into understanding his vision for Darktown, and his cheeks ached from all the fake smiling. It was a relief to be coming home, even if Cullen wouldn't be there to complain to.

"One day, my face will stick like that, and I will blame Orlais," Anton muttered to Carver, massaging his jaw. He supposed he could complain to his brother instead, even if Carver's answering hum was less impressed and certainly less understanding than Cullen's would be. "Wars have been waged over less, you know."

"Well, I suppose it's about time for the city to end up on fire again," Carver drawled. "Or was this supposed to be the part where I play Cullen and tell you not to wage war on Orlais just because the Council annoys you?"

Anton rolled his eyes and was about to respond when Carver asked, "Are you expecting a delivery? Please tell me it's not something else from Tevinter."

Then Anton caught sight of the Amell Estate and the stack of boxes out front Bodahn must not have gotten to yet. "Expecting? No. But then I have so many admirers."

Carver examined the boxes, pulling out a page tucked between the slats of one. "They're from Ferelden. Shipped from... South Reach? I thought our brother was in Gwaren..."

"Probably faster to send it overland or something." Anton shook his head and rolled his eyes. "You know how particular Artemis gets."

"Particular. That's a word for it," Carver huffed, drawing a dagger to pry the top off the first crate.

"It's probably stuff that's supposed to go to Sundermount or the Alienage," Anton speculated, as Carver swore and jammed his knife between the nails. "Though, I have to wonder why he sent it here, instead of to his house. Isn't that what he's got Orana for? I'm sure it would be far more reasonable to have an elf bring the elf things to the other elves, instead of me. Of course, it's also unlikely anyone would drop something intended for me into the bay..."

"Why drop your mail in the bay, when I can just shove you in the bay, instead?" Carver grumbled, finally wedging the lid off and tossing it aside.

Anton stared at the contents. "Books," he commented stupidly, reaching in to pull one out. He couldn't read the spine, but it looked familiar, like he'd seen it somewhere before. Most of them did.

Carver had already gone to work prying off another lid, and he tossed it aside. "Oh, how nice. This one's got my name on it."

"Maybe it's something he wants you to give to Merrill," Anton suggested, still trying to coax out the memory of where he'd seen these books before. He moved them around, trying to find a title in a language he could read, and then it clicked. Their father's books. Why else would he be so intimately familiar with a set of books he couldn't read?

But why -- and how -- was Artie sending him these? "We should bring these inside," Anton said, calmly setting the cover back on top of the books. He looked over to find Carver still struggling with the second box. Or, rather, struggling with a third box, which had been inside the second.

"Our brother is such a dick," Carver gritted through his teeth, giving no indication that he had even heard Anton.

Anton chewed on the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. "You'll get no arguments here."

The pounding and swearing at the front of the house had caught Bodahn's attention, and he stepped out to find the two brothers struggling with the boxes. "Messeres, there is no need for that. My boy and I can get them inside, but it would be easier to move them if they were still closed."

"Don't worry, we've only really opened this one," Anton assured him, as Bodahn and Sandal took one of the closed crates.

"Enchantment?" Sandal asked, curiously, as Carver winged another lid into the road.

"Knowing my brother, I wouldn't doubt it," Anton replied, after a moment. "Put them in the library, would you?"

"Of course!" Bodahn called from the front hall.

"Thank you!" Anton called after him.

Carver's box of boxes continued to lead down, each new box smaller than the last. "I swear on the blood of Andraste, if I get to the bottom of this and it's just a block of wood, I'm going to go to Ferelden and kill our brother."

"I'd say 'he's not quite that evil'," Anton replied, "but we both know that is not the case."

Finally, Carver whittled down the boxes until he was left with a box the size of his foot. Scowling, he pried open the cover, relieved to find no other box inside. "This better be worth--" He choked on the words when he saw what was in the box. Was that...? No. His brother must have found a convincing replica. Carver hadn't been the only child to own a mabari plushie. He ran a finger down the lines where he had applied the 'warpaint' once upon a time. 

"What is it?" Anton asked, noting the change in Carver's expression and trying to peek into the box.

"Nothing," Carver said too fast, pressing the box to his chest so that Anton couldn't see the contents.

Anton narrowed his eyes at his brother. "What? Did he send _you_ something Tevinter?"

"Why would he send me something Tevinter? I'm not his husband," Carver huffed, still clinging to the box.

"Well, that's never stopped him before, has it? Neither's Theron..." Anton teased, watching the way Carver moved.

"What!? No! I just-- I meant Fenris is Tevinter!" Carver gaped in horror, his grip on the box loosening. "And that is disgusting, Anton! How could you even say that!?"

Anton plucked the box out of Carver's grip, turning daintily aside to dodge the reflexive grab. "And really, Carver, you're one to talk after however many years you spent accusing Cormac of the same."

"That's different! Cormac actually is--! There is something _wrong_ with Cormac!" Carver insisted, still trying to grab the box back from Anton, before the man could get a good look at what was in it, as Bodahn and Sandal continued to move boxes around them.

"You're wrong," Anton insisted. "And anyway, is that the kind of thing you want to be yelling in the street in the middle of Hightown? What will people think of our family?" He finally leapt up, stepping off the walls on opposite sides of the recess until he was enough above Carver's head to turn and spread his legs to hold him across the gap. At last, he could stop to look into the box.

"They found it?" he asked, smiling at the toy mabari. "I didn't even know you still had it, when we left! I got you this! Do you remember?"

Carver growled, making another grab for the box, but Anton easily held it over his head. "You don't know that it's the same one! It's too... clean."

Anton's pitying look conveyed his thoughts more clearly than words: this was Artie. Of course it had been cleaned first. "If it came from the same place as the books, I suspect it is the same one."

Carver stopped trying to take the box back long enough to squint up at Anton. His brother would have to come down eventually anyway. "Why? What books did you--?" He paused, coming to the answer on his own. " _Dad's_?"

"Indeed." Anton took the mabari out of the box and held it up as though considering it. "And I'm glad to see you're still so attached to this thing. I always thought that was adorable."

"I am not attached to it," Carver huffed, fingers twitching as though wanting to grab for it. Anton lowered it, holding it just within his reach.

"No? Well, in that case Mintaka could use a new chew toy--"

Carver snatched it back with a glare, and this time Anton let him.

"He went home without us," Anton said, after a moment, pulling his legs together and dropping neatly to the ground just in front of his brother. "On the one hand, I wish I could be there, but on the other... On the other hand, I wish Cormac had gone, instead."

"Because if the darkspawn are going to eat one of us, it should be him," Carver muttered, tucking the mabari into his armour with him, so Anton couldn't snatch it again.

"No, because he's... _dad_. Not really dad, but you know what I mean. He'd know what to do. Our other brother? I worry about him. The darkspawn came through, and the village is abandoned. It's got to be utterly _filthy_." Anton laughed, the melancholy not quite leaving his eyes, as he thought of going home again. Never mind that he'd nearly lived longer in Kirkwall, by now. "Get that box of books, and then you can help me write him a letter. We'll send him back some soap."

"I'm not eight any more, Anton. I can write my own letters," Carver huffed, taking one side of the open crate, as Anton grabbed the other.

"Ah, but we both know you won't." Anton grinned. "You'll just wait for him to come home, and then I'll get to watch him push you down the stairs again. You know Mintaka loves that."

Carver might have offered his brother a single-finger salute, if he had any hands free to do it with. Instead, he settled for sticking out his tongue.


	147. Chapter 147

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anora has arranged for the mages to move to Redcliffe for the winter, until the new tower can be completed and inspected.

"As you know," Torrin spoke loudly enough to be heard at the other end of the massive room, "we are having a new tower constructed for us in the Brecilian Forest, by a restoration team from the Marches with experience in elven architecture. Unfortunately, that tower is not yet prepared. Nor, I am told, is it strictly a 'tower', but a multipurpose settlement that will be adapted to our needs. Still, we cannot stay here, with the Orlesian forces dangerously within striking range and our own tower without parts of its most necessary and substantial defence -- the wall."

"It's fucking Fen'Din's fault, and I'll never understand why he wasn't packed off to Aeonar decades ago," a round-faced elf snapped, folding his arms across his chest. He had little patience for human politics or humans at all, but somehow he'd had even less patience for Enchanter Crazypants.

"To the best of our knowledge, Fen'Din and thirty-eight other mages were crushed by the falling wall or drowned in the lake. It is best not to lay our misfortunes at the feet of the dead," Torrin lied, smoothly. Of all the people in the room, only he and Godwin had been there, when Fen'Din made his exit, taking those others with him, and it was best to hold the official story, lest the wrong people get wind of it and send an Annulment even more swiftly. "But, Senior Enchanter Godwin has received news from the queen, and we will not be trapped here, defenceless, much longer. A matter of days, if we are swift. Godwin?"

Torrin stepped back, to let Godwin take his place.

"I have received a letter from the queen herself," Godwin said, holding up said letter and puffing himself up a little at that proclamation. "She has come up with a temporary solution to our problems. We are to evacuate ourselves to Redcliffe while construction is still underway, thanks to the graciousness of Arl Teagan." He looked around the room, gauging the reactions around him, mostly on younger faces, where most of the tower's older inhabitants either long gone or long dead. "If all goes well, we will not be returning to Kinloch Hold."

The gathered mages murmured amongst themselves, and Godwin could well understand the uneasiness on many faces. This had been his home for most of his life. Even if disaster seemed to plague it, at least the disaster was familiar.

From the back of the room came a loud groan. A young man with light auburn hair pressed his hands to his face and leaned back in his chair.

"Is there a problem?" Torrin asked, trying to identify the mage without being able to see his face.

"Just that my uncle Teagan's an idiot," the young mage retorted, pulling his hands down to glare at Torrin. "Do you remember the last time there were mages in Redcliffe? Because I sure do."

"That was different!" Godwin insisted. "You were young and you didn't have a proper teacher."

The round-faced elf rolled his eyes. "Worse, you had Jowan. I knew Jowan. Nobody should have to put up with that, especially as a teacher."

"I have to agree," Torrin said, mildly, crossing the room to the young mage. "Connor, what happened to you was terrible, and none of us dispute it, but it was also preventable and not your fault. This isn't just one newly-manifested mage and an apostate. We're taking the whole tower with us. The community is the same, it's just the location is changing."

"And Jowan won't be there," Godwin added. "I believe that is the key factor."

Connor didn't quite look convinced, but then another young mage next to him reminded him that he would at least be closer to family. Not that Connor looked any happier at that realisation, exactly, the emotions flitting across his face difficult to sort out, but at least he had stopped complaining.

"Our valuables and artefacts will be moved to the castle for the time being," Godwin went on to explain, "and Arl Teagan has assured the queen that there is room for all of us."

How much room was left unsaid, but considering how little space anyone in the tower already had, no one asked or grumbled about it.

After a few moments muttering, the elf raised his voice, again. "And what's this about them not being done with our tower, yet? It's been two years! This is because it's elven, isn't it? This is just another excuse to screw the mages and destroy the hopes of the elves!"

"Eadric, must you?" Godwin sighed and rolled his eyes. "We've had a _problem_ for two years. It's only since the spring that the proposal was sent to the team in the Marches, and they came down in the summer. Do you know how long it takes to do something like this?"

"Well, it wouldn't take as long if they had mages working on it!" Eadric snapped. "Probably all shems, too, stomping on some sacred place that's been lost to us for centuries."

"Actually, it's not," Torrin said, looking up from his conversation with Connor. "I was notified of the team when construction began -- Teyrn Howe was kind enough to send a letter, explaining that the team was composed of a dwarven architect, the two noblemen who funded and worked on the restoration of a ruin in the Vimmarks, and several members of the Dalish clan that had settled in the restored ruins. And yes, several humans, as well. And they come from Kirkwall, so I might not venture how many of them are or are not mages."

"Kirkwall wouldn't dare send mages here," Eadric scoffed, rolling his eyes again, like he'd had this argument a hundred times. "We're not like them. If anyone found out, templars would be sent. If they were mages, we'd have met them already, unless they got packed off to Jainen. Oh, sure, maybe that's why it isn't done. Half the staff's been sent to the other tower."

Torrin patted the air with his hand, staying calm in the wake of Eadric's griping. "All that we know is that work is being done and at a reasonable pace, considering. Soon we will have a sturdier roof over our heads, first in Redcliffe, and then in the new tower. That is better news than we had a few weeks ago."

"So you say," Eadric replied, arms folded across his chest. "Without magic, the tower will take forever to complete, and we'll be stuck in Redcliffe, shoved into Maker knows what corner." He turned to a pair of elves next to him to continue his complaining, while Torrin let out a heavy sigh, choosing not to respond.

"When will we be leaving?" a young woman close to the front asked.

"By week's end, if all goes well," Torrin said, glancing up at the armoured figure in the doorway for confirmation. Knight-Commander Hadley nodded.

"We will be going with you, of course," Hadley told the assembled mages. "Though we may seem to be there to protect the places we pass through, I assure you that we will primarily concern ourselves with protecting you from the rebels in our own order. The roads are not safe, even now, and I fear that situation will continue to degrade with time. The sooner we are able to travel to Redcliffe, the better. Arl Teagan's men have been able to keep the area safe, so far, and I have few concerns about our safety, once we have settled in."

"Fucking shem," Eadric grumbled.

"I am going to have a serious talk with my uncle about this decision," Connor sighed, laying his hands over his face again.

* * *


	148. Chapter 148

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad news arrives for Kirkwall. Anton gets ready for a fight. In Ferelden, two Wardens arrive to assist the reconstruction team.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is about the same time as [_By the Petty Crown_ 142](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5626165/chapters/26505024).

Bran left Anton's office, closing the door behind him. He always left the viscount's office with a headache, but today it was a small one, with Anton fighting him on far less than he expected, and Bran was ready to file this away as a good day -- an uneventful day -- when he heard the slap of running footsteps heading his way.

"Excuse me," Bran called out to the running youth, his face red with exertion. Bran set himself squarely in front of Anton's door. "Do you need something?" His last word rose in pitch as the young man tried to shove him aside rather than answer.

As the young man -- assassin? -- reached for the door, Bran reached for him, grabbing a fistful of the stranger's shirt and sweeping his legs out from under him, slamming him into the floor in one fluid motion. The guards came running up in time to find Bran sitting on his would-be assailant, and the young man looked up at them all with round eyes.

Anton opened the door of his office, cautiously, daggers in hand. "Have I got to get unpleasant, already?"

"Well, I was going to take care of it, but it looks like your man's got everything well in hand." One of the guards blinked a few times, taking in the scene. "Looks like Lord Cavin's been hiding some fancy skills."

"For the forty-seventh time this week, I am not Lord Cavin," Bran sighed. "Messere will be fine. 'Bran', if you must." He looked down at the panicked young man beneath him. "But, the more pertinent question is why I'm kneeling on another assassin."

"What?" The young man looked even more panicked. "Look, it's not-- It's not like that! I'm a messenger!" He tried to reach for a pocket, only to discover Bran still held him far too tightly to do so. "It's Lady Cousland, Messeres. She said I was to put this right in the viscount's hand and look him in the eye when I did it. It's in the left of my vest."

Anton sheathed one dagger and stepped around Bran to retrieve the message. Unfolding it, he read the short message quickly. "Get Cullen. Now."

"Messere?" One of the guards inquired.

"Right now. Get my husband and get Aveline."

One of the guards bowed and took off at a quick trot down the hall, while the other guard eyed Bran and the messenger. "And what should we do with him, Messere?"

"Oh, let him up," Anton told Bran with a wave of his hand. "He's no assassin. Or at the very least, a very poor one, who now knows how not to handle my seneschal."

The messenger nodded hard enough to make his teeth clack, and Bran spared him one last glare before getting up and letting him go. He lingered, awkwardly, unsure if the viscount was going to send a reply.

Anton gave Bran an assessing look, and the seneschal just scoffed. "Quite a few people would like to get through that door," Bran said, delicately brushing dust off his knees, "and not all of them have manners."

"And ninety percent of them are Orlesian," Anton sighed, turning his attention to the messenger. "Give Lady Cousland my thanks, and tell her I'll send word if this changes my husband's opinion on her pending proposal. I'll find a more appropriate way to convey my sentiments when we're not about to be invaded."

"Yes, Messere," the messenger replied, nodding his way into a bow and then bolting for the door, hoping to outrun the invasion in question.

"Pending proposal?" Bran asked, with a calculating look. Anton didn't tend to negotiate with foreign nations in ways that didn't cross his desk.

"She has a firm appreciation for the Knight-Commander's firm bottom," Anton explained, with a sly smile. "He's not interested. I might be, but not if he's not. Still, there's a templar fleet headed east out of Orlais, and we don't know where it's headed. Lady Cousland suggests it might be coming here -- that this may be the Exalted March we feared."

"Shall I send for your sister?" Bran asked, going through lists of names and political affiliations in his head.

"No, I need her in Starkhaven. If we fail, here, that's where they're going, next." Anton sheathed his other dagger and rubbed his face. "Who decided I needed to be in charge of this Maker-forsaken city?"

"Not me, my lord," Bran drawled.

* * *

* * *

The woods grew denser, making it easy to believe a ruin could have gone so long uncovered, even this close to a regular Dalish campsite. Junar led the way, since Natia was less useful with direction, aboveground, and he carved a visible path through the underbrush -- one they'd be able to move supplies along as well as the rest of the team. But, for now, they brought in the Wardens Delilah had called for, to make sure the ruin was safe.

"So, the story is that these ruins we're going to go rebuild are the place where Theron and his friend got attacked by darkspawn, right before the Blight. He says the place was some kind of combined elven and Alamarri settlement, like the one we just came from, but I guess there's something about a magic mirror and a bunch of darkspawn busting out of it, so we wanted to get some Wardens in, just in case they were still here." Natia shrugged and followed close behind Junar, just far enough back to watch the muscles ripple as he cut through the plants in their way -- but never the trees.

"I'm sorry, did you say _Theron_?" Velanna asked, her eyes narrowing as she focused on Natia. "As in Mahariel of the Sabrae clan, teller of tales, warrior without measure, who destroyed an artefact of immeasurable value and unleashed the Blight itself on these woods?"

"See?" Junar pointed at Velanna with his free hand. "I'm not the only one! I keep saying we should have left him in the city or fed him to werewolves or something! Andruil's spear, he's just... _Theron_!"

Natia rolled her eyes at Junar. "I take it you've met Theron?" she asked Velanna.

"No, but I am familiar with the story and with his reputation."

"Well, I'm sure you'll be meeting him for real some point soon," Natia replied, "and then you can ask him all that about the artefact and 'unleashing the Blight'." Natia curled her fingers to indicate quotation marks. "But I really don't think Theron's to blame for the Blight coming here."

"You've met Theron," Junar dryly reminded her, between sweeps of his blade. "If any one person could manage it..."

"You do have a point."

"Guess I should keep my fingers to myself, then," Sigrun said. "The last thing I want is to knock over a vase and end up starting the whole Blight all over again."

"Vhenan," Velanna sighed, pressing her fingers against the corners of her eyes. "The tales say the eluvians violated the laws of magic the Commander was taught -- that it is possible to move matter from one place to another. Once, there was a book, but it was stolen, before the last Arlathvhen -- not that I was invited."

"But, you know Solona, and she's got ears everywhere." Sigrun patted Velanna's back.

"But, the point is that the Sabrae clan stumbled onto one of these things, and this Theron used it to bring the darkspawn through, hopelessly corrupting the eluvian and destroying it in the process," Velanna explained.

"I don't know if I'd say hopelessly," Junar admitted. "Merrill -- we left her back in Kirkwall, but she says she's got a piece that's uncorrupted and it should work, but it doesn't. Of course, rumour has it there was a demon involved."

"It's Kirkwall. There's demons in everything. I heard in some parts of town, there's demons in the toilet." Natia shrugged absently at Sigrun. "Besides, didn't Merrill and her big, bad 'Ser Shemlen' come kill the demon that killed your Keeper?"

"According to Theron," Junar said with a stiff shrug. "He came out of the cave with Merrill and their shems, and made up a song about it on the spot. The rest of us didn't see what, exactly, happened."

Velanna hummed as though that gave her a great insight, her lips pressing thin. "So you just have Theron's word? On what happened to your Keeper and to the other elf who was with him in the ruins?"

There was a tenseness in Junar's shoulders at that as he continued clearing a path. "Tamlen," he replied, "and Theron's a chatty, annoying idiot, but he's not a lying annoying idiot. Trust me. The fool is terrible at keeping a secret."

"So if your friend -- Merrill?" Sigrun cut in, shifting the subject and waiting for Natia and Junar to nod. "So if Merrill has done some hand-wavy magic with this eluvian thing, someone's clearly been to the ruins since Theron sent everything to shit. Were there still darkspawn hanging around then?"

"You'd have to ask Merrill," Junar said, words split up by grunts of effort as he tried to kick aside a particularly stubborn root.

Velanna watched Junar, amused. "Did they truly send no mage with you? I have been watching you hack your way through these woods, for hours, like some shemlen."

"Well, do you have something better, flat-ear?" Junar demanded, with a pointed look at the double-griffon on Velanna's chest plate. "They sent us plenty of mages, but the restoration kind, not the moving a forest kind."

Sigrun sucked in a sharp breath.

"It's a pity that blade isn't as sharp as your tongue." A wide path opened before Velanna, the plants moving out of her way, as vines coiled around Junar's legs, holding him in one place. As he tried to hack them away, they grabbed his arms as well. "Flat-ear? I was to be Keeper, once, but that was before the Blight came. Is this how the Sabrae Clan defends itself, after bringing the Blight upon us?"

"Oh, shit." Natia sighed. "Uh, hey, Warden lady, if you can do that thing with the path, that would be great, but don't kill Junar. He's the only one who knows where we're going, and I like looking as his ass while he leads us there."

"Elf butts, am I right?" Sigrun held out a fist to Natia, who bumped it.

Velanna stared at Junar like he was a bug she wanted to crush. She took a moment to enjoy the terrified look in his eyes, and his silence, before the vines simply dropped him, his ass hitting ground hard.

"And now his is bruised," Velanna said to the dwarf ladies, thoroughly smug as she opened the way forward. To Junar, she said, "Now lead on. Or have you not yet learned your lesson?"

Junar wasn't thrilled at the thought of putting her at his back again, but he rose to his feet with only a little grumbling, rubbing at the area that was sure to bruise. Vines and brush moved aside as he walked, the path unfolding like a flower with an ease that made Junar grit his teeth. He did not like this elf warden.

Eventually the plant life stopped folding away and opened into a clearing, the stones of ruined buildings half swallowed by the forest.

"Oh, shit, this place is a disaster." Natia threw her hands up and strode into the clearing to examine a leaning wall. "Trees! What is it with surfacers never paying attention to the trees? Or the ground, really. This wasn't always an underground entrance. Look at the way the stone juts. Those weren't stairs. That used to be a straight path. What a horror. I can't wait until Artemis gets back."

"Doesn't Murray do that rock thing, too?" Junar asked, crouching beside the remains of a toppled statue, to give it a closer look.

"Not like Artie does. When Artie gets back we can just lift this right up out of the ground and repair whatever it fell into, if there was anything under it besides a cavern." Natia looked around. "Where are we? You know, I wonder if there was a Deep Roads entrance around here. Might explain the darkspawn, too, if this sank down into a trade road. We used to have a big thing with the Alamarri."

"Yeah, I know." Sigrun nodded, trying to make sense of the ruins. "We've got a man back at the Vigil who says the place was ... not built by dwarves, but dwarves probably helped. Big old deep roads entrance, under it, too. We get trade out of Orzammar down there, now that the roads are a little clearer."

"Great," Junar muttered, stretching his sword arm as he walked, "so there _is_ a good chance there might be lingering darkspawn."

"That's why we're here, isn't it?" Velanna asked, arching an eyebrow and looking down her nose at him.

"Yeah, but just as a precaution, I was hoping," Junar replied. But, considering the ease with which she had manipulated the forest, Junar supposed he was in capable hands.

Natia led them now, occasionally shaking her head at the state of a wall or a roof, her expression bearing the pained and tight look of grief. She tested the entrance to the central building, checking the footing, making sure the ceiling wouldn't cave in if they whispered too loudly.

"This one is in a bit better shape," she said, stepping through the door jamb onto a slanted floor and descending into the dark.

"I thought this was supposed to be a restoration of an elven ruin?" Velanna looked at the walls as they entered a section of level floor. "I know these marks from the Vigil, though. Humans lived here."

"So, some super weird shit we found out in the other ruin out here -- it looks like there were elves living with humans around here. Alamarri, not Tevinter. The Alamarri got a little of everybody, it seems." Natia cocked a thumb at a statue. "That's an Alamarri warrior statue, but there's going to be some elf stuff down here, if I don't miss my guess. Probably gods, if the other ruin's anything to go by."

"The Alamarri kept slaves?" Velanna sounded confused.

"Not if there's elven gods down here. You don't hold onto the gods of your slaves. It's Alamarri architecture, which says the elves came later, but they definitely took some kind of control of their own lives and maybe those of the humans here, too. They at least lived as equals. I'm not gonna judge too much on that, because I wouldn't know an Alamarri god if one bit me on the ass." Natia shrugged, peering around a corner before stepping into the next room.

"You'd know if it bit you. They all worship dogs." Junar rolled his eyes and followed, batting aside a cobweb that had passed over Natia's head.

Holes in the ceiling lit the way, but Junar still eyed the shadows despite his joking, his sword in hand. It had been years since he had lost seen darkspawn, and just the thought of them was still enough to make his hand sweat and his blood run cold. He imagined he could feel them here, if such a thing were possible, skittering about in the dark.

Natia's sigh echoed off the walls. "We are going to need to gut so much of this and start over. The mages'll have their work cut out for them."

Junar turned to Natia, about to crack another joke, when he saw the shadows move, a claw reaching out for Natia in the dark. Junar would like to say he responded heroically, placing himself between Natia and the danger, his sword striking for the monster, but his reaction, pulling Natia to him and screaming in her ear, was much less graceful and much more embarrassing. 

Velanna and Sigrun darted forward, toward where Junar was looking, only to find nothing more threatening than an ancient statue lurking.

"I am not left with the best impression of your clan, thus far," Velanna remarked drily, shining a light on the narrow-winged, long-armed statue.

"I dunno, it's not the kind of thing I'd look forward to meeting in the dark. What is that, anyway?" Sigrun asked, squinting at the thing.

"Hahren Paivel says it's a statue of Falon'Din," Junar muttered, dusting Natia off and trying his best to look as if he hadn't just squealed like a child afraid of fireflies.

"Does death so frighten you that you flee even from its image?" Velanna teased, hiding a smile behind her hand.

"You think you're so much better at this? You take the lead!" Junar threw his hands up. "I'm a hunter. I know what's supposed to be out there. What I don't know is what's sneaking around in some ancient catacomb with the god of the dead!"

"Gladly," Velanna said, gliding past him, "as long as you do not shriek in _my_ ear the next time a shadow scares you." As she spoke, she cast a spell to illuminate the dark stretch of hallway in front of them, smirking at Junar over her shoulder... and failing see that her light spell illuminated not only the hall, but the cluster of monstrous spiders dangling over their heads.

Junar screamed again, pointing up this time as he drew his sword.

Velanna rolled her eyes as a spider hovered directly above her, legs unfurling. "Really?" she snapped. "Are you that...?" She trailed off, realising that Sigrun was looking up as well, reaching for her handaxes. She stiffened, looking up to see the spider drop, bringing up her staff just enough to swat it away from her face.

"Spiders," Natia sighed, rolling an Antivan fire grenade down the hall, toward a particularly flammable looking clump of webs she thought might be a nest. "It's always spiders."


	149. Chapter 149

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isabela arrives in Kirkwall, bearing gifts, but Bran's ready for her, this time.

The sounds of mayhem in the front office were always enough to get Anton's attention, though lately those sounds had been happening much more frequently. He wondered, as he drew his daggers and crossed to the door, why he'd suddenly become more popular with people who couldn't just make an appointment. Opening the door, he found a few fallen books and an extremely recognisable ass across the room.

"Isabela?" Anton asked, noticing the man lingering in the outer doorway as well as the one Isabela had pinned to the wall.

As she looked over her shoulder, grinning, the man pinned to the wall was revealed to be Bran, who used the angle to get a leg up and force her into the corner of a cabinet. "Well, that's a change since the last time I was in town! I guess Bran likes it rough, now!"

Bran shot an exasperated look at Anton, the lipstick smears on his face making obvious some of Isabela's tactics. "I told her she needed an appointment."

"Don't be ridiculous, Red. I never need an appointment." Isabela worked a hand free and used it to grab a firm handful of Bran's bottom. "Unless you want me to make one with you about getting that stick out of your ass. Everyone else in the room can tell you I'm an absolute professional at getting sticks out of asses."

The man in the doorway cleared his throat. "And into asses..."

Anton glanced at the man and turned back to Izzy. And then turned back to the man, just to check that his eyes hadn't lied to him. It was like looking into a warped mirror, one that widened his cheeks and made his skin paler and that put him in what looked like a set of mage robes. "Who are you, and what are you doing with my nose?"

Before the stranger could answer, Isabela peeled herself off of Bran to throw an arm around the newcomer's shoulders. "Why, Anton, this is the plunder from my latest quest." She raised an eyebrow suggestively, and the stranger smirked. "Introducing Daylen Amell!"

"Amell?" Anton repeated.

"Amell?" Bran echoed, trying to wipe off Isabela's lipstick smears.

"Amell," Daylen verified, nodding. "Your cousin. According to the word of a pirate." He shrugged sheepishly as he waited for Anton to process this.

"What's your mother's name?" Anton asked, trying to figure out if Isabela had found the missing side of the family or another of Gamlen's bastards.

"I don't know." Daylen shrugged. "Mage. It's not like they tell you that stuff. That... that's not going to be a problem, is it?"

"Three of my siblings are mages," Anton declared, waving off the idea.

"I thought she said you were married to the Knight-Commander..." Daylen shot a confused look at Isabela.

"I am. And he has a righteous ass that should be framed for display." Anton stepped back and held open the door of his office. "Come in, sit down, tell me about yourself."

"I'll frame his ass any time you want me to," Isabela offered, hands raised as if to display something. "But, speaking of templars, we've got to talk."

"Is this about that Exalted March Lady Cousland was expecting?" Anton asked as Isabela dragged Daylen past him into the office.

"Not an Exalted March, or if it was, they're going to try again, because they did not succeed." Isabela looked grim. "They went after Dairsmuid, which is where I picked up this handsome slab of mage."

"Dairsmuid?" Anton's brows knit. Shutting the door behind them, he motioned for the seats in front of his desk. "And with enough templars for us to mistake it for an Exalted March?"

"We assume they were planning to carry out an Annulment," Daylen said, sinking into one chair -- and actually feeling like he was sinking, so soft were the cushions. "I don't know much about the other Circles, but from what I've come to understand, Dairsmuid was not as strict with the Chantry rules."

"A bit like Kirkwall," Isabela said, leaning her hip against Anton's desk instead of taking a seat, "but not as easily defensible, nor as economically important. An easy target, or it would have been." A smug smile curled her lips. "But you know I don't always make things easy."

"No," Daylen said, "I suspect you often make things very hard."

Anton studied Daylen for a moment, before turning back to Isabela. "Yeah, that's an Amell. No question."

"You doubted me?" Isabela scoffed and shoved at Anton with her foot.

"You know, after that thing with the Qunari book..." Anton raised an eyebrow pointedly, then glanced back at Daylen. "She tried to introduce you to the stallion, yet?"

Daylen shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I have not met any intact horses recently."

Isabela smiled smugly at Anton.

"You know what?" Anton said, after a long moment. "I'm sorry I asked. What happened in Dairsmuid?"

"Lady Cousland has some cousins who were happy to help us out." Isabela shrugged, as if the battle had been just another day in the bay. "The templars sailed in, we turned them away at the port, which they didn't take well, and then we sank them. Cullen didn't know about this?"

"Cullen's on the Knight-Vigilant's shit list right now," Anton replied, pulling out the other chair and dropping into it. "We wouldn't know. We're targets. The Divine still wants his opinion, though. He leaves for Ferelden, soon. I told him to kick my brother's ass while he's there. Sending me unmarked boxes of banned books..." He huffed, still glad the books had arrived and were safely stored in his library.

"Banned books, you say?" Isabela said, leaning forward with interest.

"They weren't banned for any fun reasons," Anton assured her. "Besides, as I just pointed out, you with books..." He trailed off, shrugging meaningfully.

Isabela heaved a dramatic sigh, turning to Daylen. "I swear, you steal _one book_ , and suddenly no one trusts you!"

Daylen looked back and forth between them, nonplussed. "It must have been a very good book."

"I don't know about good," Izzy replied, tipping her head back and forth, "but it was a very _valuable_ book, which is my favourite kind."

"I see," Daylen said, though he didn't.

"Your brother's in Ferelden?" Isabela asked, a moment later. "I thought I left him up north!"

"Other brother," Anton said.

"You just have too many brothers." Isabela rolled her eyes. "Oh, right. Artemis. Something about hot Howe's hot sister and some elves, isn't it?"

"More or less. I'm just hoping being in the middle of the woods keeps him out of the way of all this." Anton sighed and slid down in his chair. "Is my hair turning white, yet? I'm starting to think all these viscounts are painted with grey and white hair because of the job..."

"Politics, Tony. Now you've got to _bargain_ with the Orlesians instead of just beating them and taking their money." Isabela laughed and put a foot on the arm of Anton's chair.

"Do you think I could just win Orlais in a game of Wicked Grace? If I were Emperor of Orlais, I could make all of this stop," Anton groaned, smacking his head against the carved decoration on the back of the chair.

"Sure, but then you'd be Emperor of Orlais, which is even bigger and shittier than Kirkwall," Isabela reminded him. "And they've got bards, so the assassination attempts would be daily. And then Orlais would rule Kirkwall again, and everyone would be pissed."

"Technically, Kirkwall would rule Orlais," Daylen pointed out.

"Yeah, but you can't tell them that. They'd kill him twice as fast." Isabela laughed.

"Lord Dog, Fereldan Emperor of Orlais." Anton snorted. "They deserve it, too. When--"

"Please, not the Occupation." Isabela held up her hands. "I had to hear about the Occupation endlessly from your cousin -- other cousin. Solona. Her and Leliana always on about the war and tactics and King Meghren..."

Anton held up his hands in surrender. "Then I don't need to provide the details. They still deserve it. That said, ruling Orlais sounds like more of a hassle than anything. I'd hand that throne over to my sister."

Isabela leaned back, tilting her head to consider that. "That would be terrifying. I'd love to see it."

"How many of you are there?" Daylen asked. "Isabela did mention a sister, and... how many brothers?"

"One sister, three brothers," Anton supplied. 

"Five seems to be the number, in this family," Daylen joked absently, still trying to get his mind around the idea that he was sitting in a room with someone he was related to.

"Gamlen's only got one, and she's a bastard." Anton paused, rubbing his fingertips against his chin. "I mean that in every applicable sense. She's great. Up in Starkhaven, last I heard, heckling the prince and his advisors."

"I thought that was your sister, not our cousin..." Daylen looked confused.

"No, my sister's the princess-consort, and I don't want to know what she's doing to the prince." Anton held up his hands defensively.

"I bet I could give you a fairly accurate account. Bethany's got some great--"

Anton cut Isabela off in the middle of that sentence. "No. That is my sister. Do not tell me these things about my sister. Or my brother. Or my other brother. Or the brother I don't even want to consider how you might have gotten naked."

"I didn't have to get him naked. Zevran did it for me." Isabela grinned wickedly.

"I believe the words I used were 'do not'." Anton made quotes in the air.

"She keeps telling me terrible things about my sister, too. Fortunately, I don't know my sister that well." Daylen coughed and smiled awkwardly.

"Luckily I'm well-acquainted," Isabela replied with a wink.

"Is that your secret plan?" Anton drawled. "To sleep with my entire family?"

"Secret? And here I thought I was being fairly obvious about it. And you know it's one of my better plans."

"As long as Gamlen isn't included in those plans, I suppose so." Anton was almost relieved by the horrified face Izzy pulled at that. "But, back to our friends in Dairsmuid. Should we be worried about the templars sending another attack?"

Isabela folded her arms across her chest, her eyes turning steely. "Only if they want to send more templars to the bottom of the bay. We've proven that Dairsmuid is not the easy target they thought it was, and if they're smart, they'll look elsewhere."

"Kirkwall," Anton replied, grimly. "We're coastal. We're revolutionary. We're next." He tipped his head toward the door and shouted. "Bran! Raise the chains! Send someone to the harbour!"

"You did that last week, Viscount," Bran called back, his voice amused, if tired. "You haven't lowered them yet. Trade is suffering awfully."

"Then let the traders into the bay." The eye-roll carried into Anton's voice. "We can't let these assholes sink ships because we left them out in the water."

"Do you have any protocols--"

"Use Threnhold's," Anton barked. "No Orlesians, no templars, until further notice. Get everyone else in, where it's safe -- and get me Aveline!"

Bran's loudly muttered, "Hire an urchin," could be heard through the door.

* * *


	150. (Winter 9:40)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Anton get up to some excellent uses of the viscount's office. Bran disapproves.

"Cullen, dear husband, Ser Sexy... Surely you have some time to spend with your beloved husband, the man of your dreams, before you go marching off into the depths of Ferelden without him." Anton batted his eyes up at the broad-shouldered image of golden templar perfection, leaning against the side of his desk.

"Have I not been spending more nights at home? There is so much to get done, before I go. Thrask is-- Thrask, honestly. I don't know that he ever expected to be in a leadership position, and while I trust him implicitly with our vision of the future of mages in Kirkwall, I'm not sure I trust him with the enormous collection of paperwork on top of his other duties. It's a good thing I'm leaving him Keran and Ella, or he'd be as poorly off as I was when Meredith was still trying to drown me in protocol." Cullen sighed and rubbed at the back of his neck, shifting his gaze to the papers scattered across Anton's desk. A few trade agreements and what looked like a notice of complaint... Markham. It was always Markham. At least it wasn't another offer from Marchioness Ansburg, who he swore just wrote for the thought of the colours his face would turn, when Anton told him about the letters.

"You need to relax," Anton decided, sliding out of his chair to rub his cheek against Cullen's surprisingly unarmoured legs. "Everything's going to be just fine, here. You've got competent people who know how to do the job, even if those people aren't Thrask. Tim and Keran can take care of most of it, anyway. All you need to worry about right now is you."

"And you," Cullen muttered, looking down at the top of his husband's head. "What's this I've heard about you wandering around in Darktown at all hours, with Merrill? Carver's having fits and Aveline nearly punched a hole in my desk, the other week. Do I need to be concerned about this? Of course I need to be concerned, it's you. Anton, you can't fix everything by yourself!"

"Neither can you, but it doesn't stop you trying." Anton looked up, wryly. "Besides, I'm not alone, I'm negotiating a contract with the Merchant's Guild. I wouldn't dare make people move out, but I can sure make it a more pleasant place to live. Dwarves are great at building nice things, underground, right?"

"Just like you are great at getting into trouble," Cullen sighed, resting a hand on the back of Anton's head. He gave half a mind to the open door and of what this would look like to anyone who walked in. Probably exactly what it was going to be, if he was honest with himself. 

"And just as good at getting myself back out of it, as I am sure you have noticed." Anton batted his eyelashes teasingly at Cullen. "Now, what kind of trouble can I get myself into just now?" He ran his hand up the back of Cullen's leg, pouting when Cullen stopped him with a hand on his wrist.

"Seriously, Anton. Please be careful. I don't want to be hearing about more assassination attempts on my husband's life while I'm away." Or worse, he thought but didn't say. He had to believe in his husband's untouchability or he would never leave.

"The last thing that tried to kill me was a toilet," Anton drawled. "You know I'll be fine."

"I don't know any such thing!" Cullen protested a bit louder than he meant to. "I've lost enough." Not as much as Anders, his mind filled in, and he stopped that thought before it could go further. That way was only madness. "I don't want to lose my husband -- not to Crows, demons, Tevinter attack toilets, or anything else! And you just keep... going out there and standing in front of things."

"So do you," Anton reminded him. "Of the two of us, I'm pretty sure you actually have the more dangerous job."

"And yet, it is more times a week that you almost get killed," Cullen retorted. "Please, Anton. I want to have a husband and a city to come back to, after this Conclave. Don't die and don't destroy our home. Promise me that."

"You never aim large, do you?" Anton asked, tugging at the laces on Cullen's trousers. "Let me give you something even more to look forward to. Something to come back to that's even better than a stressed out viscount and a city with drunk mages setting the brothels on fire on the weekends."

"That didn't happen again, did it?" Cullen asked before reminding himself that, no, this was not meant to be a moment for business. And really, Anton's hands on his skin was much more interesting to think about, better still to experience. "Never mind. And you never did promise."

Anton huffed a laugh, the puff of air on Cullen's newly exposed skin distracting. "Very well. I promise not to die without letting you kick my ass first. I also promise to give you the very best of greetings when you come back, so that you don't get that silly idea of leaving again back in your head. I promise..." He wriggled Cullen's trousers down under his hips. "...to make you forget your name in a few minutes."

"You always aim large, don't you?" Cullen teased, carding his fingers through Anton's hair.

"Dear husband, I aim for the things I am certain I can achieve. If I aimed large, you and my brother would be observing a very different scenario." And with that, Anton happily shut himself up, licking Cullen's knob into his mouth, with a warm hum.

For a moment, Cullen stared, unfocused and slackjawed, while both of those things filtered through his head. Anton's mouth... which brother? Anton's mouth... large? That would make sense later, when he had fewer things on his mind. One fewer. The one that occupied most of his attention. The one that was supposed to be occupying all of his attention, and Maker, if Anton wasn't putting effort into it, today. Not like there were days he didn't put effort into it, but somehow, this time in particular seemed the most notable. Probably because it was happening, right now.

He watched his spit-slick knob slide back out from between his husband's smiling lips.

"You're drooling, dear husband," Anton pointed out, reaching up to wipe a strand of spit off Cullen's lower lip.

"What? I am not." Cullen flushed, instantly, the only break in the red tinge where his scar crossed his lips.

"You absolutely are, and it is a testament to my excellence." Anton looked smug as he nudged Cullen into a slightly different position, putting himself between Cullen's legs and the desk. "Push that contract aside so you don't dribble on it and get a good grip, because I mean to enjoy you, my dashing delight. And then, perhaps I'll enjoy you in another way that I definitely don't want you getting on my desk. Mmm, wouldn't that be just like the daring bandit of asses?"

"That most dastardly of bandits," Cullen said a bit breathlessly, once he managed to scrape enough of his brain together to form a sentence. Not even a sentence. A collection of words that sort of made sense. That was the best he could hope for in such a situation, gripping the edge of Anton's desk while Anton put that wicked tongue back to use.

Cullen was just sinking back into the moment, into the divine experience that was Anton's mouth, when he caught sight of a figure in the doorway at the edge of his vision. It took Cullen a moment too long to remember what was wrong with that, and by then Bran was letting out a stream of curses.

" _Really_?" the seneschal screeched. "You couldn't have at least closed the door? Would that really have been so very difficult?"

Anton made a muffled noise of assent from where he remained pinned against the desk by his husband's hips.

"He's got me by the legs," Cullen protested, weakly. "Sorry about all this. You know how he--" The sentence cut off on a stuttered inhale, Cullen's knuckles whitening against the desk.

"No. I do not know. Nor do I want to. But, since the two of you are utterly incorrigible, and I refuse to ruin the carpet by throwing a bucket of cold water, I will take the door with me, when I go." Bran's voice was colder than any water he could've drawn in the Keep. "The post has come in, Viscount, and you should address at least two letters, once you have finished panting like a draft dog at a cold spigot."

Cullen flinched at the door slam. "This is a terrible idea. It's just Bran, but it's _Bran_. The man has served three viscounts, and he still has it in him to be offended at this, which means it is not normal behaviour for a Viscount of Kirkwall. And we should have shut the door."

Anton pulled back, pausing to lick his lips, and Cullen lamented the loss of pressure. "That was his own fault. He knows exactly what to expect when you and I are 'meeting' in my office. He just enjoys having an excuse to be offended. And if he is offended anyway..." He licked his lips again, this time in a promise before wrapping his lips back around Cullen.

It was difficult to argue with that kind of logic, and Cullen's first attempts to do so came out in stuttered breaths. "Still, the point is that..." He gripped the edge of the desk tighter as Anton did something particularly wicked with his tongue. "...that I want you to avoid doing anything that might make someone want to kill you."

Anton swallowed and turned his eyes up, one eyebrow drifting upward in an amused question he didn't have to ask.

"No, not me," Cullen panted, trying to keep his balance as his knees weakened at Anton's exquisite handling of his delicates.

Anton snorted in amusement at the idea that Bran would have an assassination in him. On the other hand, he didn't want to spend too much time thinking about what Bran might have in him, on any given day, when he could spend that time thinking those things about Cullen, who was leaning heavily on the desk, panting with every breath.

Cullen's eyes squeezed shut as he tried to maintain even the least bit of control, without resorting to the one thing he knew would work -- that would also end the moment entirely. He meant to hold back, not render himself unwilling to be touched for the rest of the day. But, those thoughts still crept in around the edges of his scattered mind, and as he diverted his attention to drive them off, Anton swallowed hard around him, letting the most erotic sound imaginable vibrate along his tongue and up through Cullen's knob.

Cullen bit off a groan. Just because the door was closed did not mean the room was soundproof, and the last thing they needed was for Bran to come storming back in. Now that was an image that helped cool him down, at least until Anton made that sound again. He couldn't feel his legs, could only feel that heat and vibration around him, and his knuckles were white on the desk's edge, both to hold himself up and hold himself still. His fingers would cramp after this, and it would be more than worth it.

Anton played his husband like an instrument, could feel the tense and shift of his muscles as he tried to hold back, could feel him tremble as he teetered on the edge. His hands squeezing the globes of Cullen's ass, Anton held him there at his mercy, a smile curling the corners of his lips as the sound of his name fell shaky and breathless from Cullen's lips.

The sound Cullen made, as Anton drew slowly back, was inhuman, his face twisting in confusion and disappointment, as Anton's mouth left his skin.

"Do you want me?" Anton asked, a sly smile playing at the corners of his wet lips.

Cullen made another incomprehensible sound of frustrated desire, as he glared down at his husband's smiling face.

"Will you still want me after?" Anton asked, one hand caressing Cullen's throbbing knob and the other dipping down between the firm and ever-squeezable globes of Cullen's ass. "Or should I ravish you thoroughly now?"

"After." Cullen's voice was strained, as he tried to remember how to form words.

"Oh, good," Anton purred, placing a tiny kiss on the tip of Cullen's knob, before opening his mouth and swallowing it all down.

The noise Cullen made was not human, the kind of garbled, desperate sound that would lead Anton to tease him about dragon noises later, but Cullen was too focused on trying to stand to care. He didn't last long, not after that teasing, after that tempting tongue, and Anton held him close as he spilled, swallowing him down with an ease and expertise Cullen still could not match, despite his best efforts. This man was a marvel to him, every day, still, and Cullen looked down at him, more than a little dazed as reality reasserted itself.

Anton pulled back and licked his lips, grinning up at Cullen's slack-jawed expression, pleased that he could still put that look on his face. "Careful, or you'll start to drool again."

"Afraid I'll drool on you?" Cullen asked, remembering what words were. He considered pulling Anton up but, with his shaky legs, he slid to join him on the floor instead, pretending to slobber over his neck and face like a dog.

"Drool on me, and you can sleep on the couch with Mintaka." Anton lifted an eyebrow imperiously.

"But, then you'll miss me more, when I go to Ferelden." Cullen looked triumphant for a moment, before his own words sunk in. "I'll miss you, either way. Promise me, Anton."

"Don't worry, I won't burn down the city while you're gone. You'll have a home to come back to, and a rakishly handsome husband waiting in your bed."

"Good." Cullen hummed contentedly, resting his chin on Anton's head.

Anton found one of Cullen's hands and pressed it into his own lap. "And this is why I asked before or after."

"Bran's going to kill us both, and then we won't have to worry about Ferelden," Cullen laughed, toppling to the side and dragging his husband with him.

"Here, get your knees under you, so I don't have to worry about ripping your trousers. Last thing you need is to walk back home with your incredibly attractive ass on display for all of Kirkwall," Anton teased, and Cullen looked back over his shoulder, mid-turn.

"I'm not your brother. Don't say things like that." Cullen shifted uncomfortably. "It's not sexy. It's not even funny."

"Well, it's a good thing I'm thinking ahead, so it won't happen, isn't it?" Anton ran a soothing hand down Cullen's back. "Though I may have to call for a cart to bring you home, once I'm through with you. That or a stamina potion."

Cullen made a vaguely disgruntled sound and pressed his face against the floor. "If you don't stop saying unsexy things, I'm putting my pants back on and leaving you here."

"You don't find that sexy, Ser Cullen?" Anton said in a purr that was meant to be exactly that, even as Anton's touch seemed to take on an apologetic note, if a touch could do so. "The thought of the nefarious Ass-Bandit pleasuring you so intensely that he has to carry you home over his shoulders?"

"Sounds like an awfully courteous bandit, carrying me home," Cullen drawled.

"Would you rather I whisk you away into the wilderness?" Anton bent over him to whisper in his ear. "Would that entice you to draw your sword on me again?"

"That would please the Ass-Bandit, would it?" Cullen said over his shoulder, relaxing again under Anton's gentle touch. "Is that why he is now holding me at knifepoint?" The barest curl of his lips told Anton this was meant as a tease.

"A knife? You wound me, ser." Anton clapped a hand over his chest. "Surely you recognise my sword."

"I so rarely encounter your sword unsheathed, these days," Cullen teased, barely getting to the end of the sentence without laughing, a tinge of red spreading across his forehead.

"Well, have you a sheath fit for it? Perhaps you'll recognise it once it's back where you seem to think it belongs." Anton reached up and grabbed something out of his desk drawer. "I think I'll have to make sure this one's the right style. I'd hate to ruin it."

Cullen pressed his face against the absurdly clean floor of Anton's office, lip clenched in his teeth, as Anton's slick fingers slid into him, soothing, more than sexy, which Cullen didn't mind. He so rarely minded the way Anton touched him, and now with that hand gently working him open, it was all he could do not to purr and beg for a pillow. Half-asleep was how they did so many things, over the years, and Anton had already nearly worn him out.

"Mmm, a bandit who takes such care to ensure the well-being of both sword and sheath? Truly rare. Even more courteous than a bandit returning his plundered gentlemen to their homes, perhaps."

"Say that again," Anton demanded, easing his sword into the tight, slick sheath that awaited it.

Instead, Cullen choked on his tongue, trying not to groan at the slow stretch.

Anton made the sound for him, seeming to mind less the idea of Bran hearing, perhaps even revelling in the thought of irritating him more, and Cullen had to smile at that thought. He sucked in a breath when the stretch bordered on too much, but Anton's hand resumed its soothing caress down his spine, and 'too much' softened back into pleasant.

"It seems you do have a fine sheath, Ser Cullen," Anton said, wasting no time in picking up a rhythm, his thrusts quick and shallow in a way that told Cullen that he was done taking his time. Pleasant as this was, Cullen was grateful, for the sake of his neck and back. When he returned he would have to see about having a couch put in here, if this was something they were going to keep doing.

"A fine fit for your sword, Ass-Bandit."

"It's perfect. I couldn't ask for better," Anton panted, eyes lingering where he and Cullen joined. "Do you feel how it clings to my blade, like a lover's caress?"

Cullen thought of a reply involving circular metaphor, but it was knocked out of his head, by the next thrust and the one right after it, and all that exited his mouth was an agreeably warm moan.

"You're perfect," Anton assured him, hips and breath stuttering at the sensation. "So glad I married you."

Hearing the change in Anton's voice, Cullen squeezed tighter, tipping his hips at just that angle that let Anton plunge even deeper. At this rate, Bran wouldn't have the time to be more upset than he'd already gotten with them. For a moment, Cullen wished he could kiss Anton, but the angles and arrangement of limbs were not in his favour. There was always later, even if later currently had a time limit.

Anton's next attempt at affectionate words ended up garbled into affectionate sounds as his hips lost their rhythm, his hands squeezing Cullen's hips and holding them as close together as two humans could physically be without the intercession of magic. The frantic rhythm stilled as Anton shuddered, one last long, shaky groan spilling from his lips.

"I love you," Cullen said, sinking back completely to the floor even as Anton flopped down beside him, looking marvellously breathless and debauched. Cullen rolled onto his side to better pull his husband to him. He kissed up Anton's neck to the corner of his jaw. "You are my favourite Ass-Bandit."

"Definitely stole your ass, today," Anton panted, tossing a half-clothed leg over Cullen's shin, which was as far as he could reach with his trousers shoved halfway to his knees. "Should keep a better watch on that, while you're gone. It's my ass, now. Don't want anyone else stealing it, or I'll have to come to Ferelden and stab people in the bad way."

"With your other dagger?" Cullen teased.

"With my daggers rather than my sword." Anton's eyebrow migrated lazily upward. "Some men just have no appreciation for fine blades."

"I definitely appreciate your sword." Cullen mumbled, resting his head on his own folded arm as he clutched Anton to his chest.

"Good thing. I give you enough opportunity." Anton set his head on Cullen's elbow and let the exhaustion take him. He'd worried too much, too long. At least down here, the desk was in the way of a clear shot from the windows and Bran was still out in the antechamber. They'd be safe for an hour or two.

* * *

"Viscount," Bran said as he pushed into the room over an hour later, eyes on the ledger in his hand, "Councilman De Launcet requests a word with you, regarding the --" Bran trailed off, finally looking up and not finding Anton sitting at his desk. He looked around, seeing no windows open and wondering how Anton had managed to sneak out.

As he turned to go, he heard movement, the subtle shush of fabric moving over fabric, and Bran followed the sound around to the other side of the desk. A scowl rolled over his features. He had found the viscount, as well as the Knight-Commander, entwined and nearly pantsless, asleep on the floor.

Bran threw the ledger at Anton's feet, startling him awake. "You have _got_ to be kidding me!" Bran stormed out before either of them could say anything, vowing to hand Anton everything under the door from now on.


	151. Chapter 151

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feynriel bumps into an unusual individual, in the Fade.

A thousand years before, the Alamarri had destroyed the settlement at Drake's Fall. In the wake of the Blight and Andraste, Tevinter's hold on the South had weakened dramatically, and the settlements on the coast were some of the first to fall to the returning force of Andraste and Maferath's army. Still, some of them held even older secrets that could still be found, if one knew how to look. And that was what Feynriel had come to do -- to study the ruins of the place Tevinter had undertaken more dragon-bone work than anywhere in the empire, in the hope that something still remained that he could use.

Travel in the Fade was nearly instantaneous, most of the time -- there was no space between here in the world and there in the fade. He could close his eyes and arrive within a breath or two -- much simpler, if somewhat less effective -- than taking a boat across the Waking Sea, past the pirates holding the surrounding islands. He wouldn't be as close, so it wouldn't be as clear, but he could still determine if there was a reason to show up in person.

The towers loomed, obviously Tevinter, over a chasm of bones and decay, but something else lingered under or beyond them -- something older, different, not Tevinter. He wondered if it might not be something elven, but the Tevinter stage was much more recent and still strong in the memory of the place. Mages of varying power seemed to work with bone and lyrium in most parts of the settlement. Obviously, they were merely echoes, but their actions could reveal things long gone or things still there, and long hidden.

Feynriel wandered, sifting through memories, though the way they overlapped or bled into each other made it difficult to follow what the echoes were doing. And through it all, that older memory called to him across the chasm, a soft beacon in the mists of Tevinter industry. Feynriel allowed himself to be pulled in that direction, deciding that he could explore the towers more thoroughly once he found out what that was.

There were memories down here too, amidst the dragon bones, older, harder to make out against the clearer Tevinter ghosts. There were memories in the bones themselves, memories of life that made Feynriel shiver, and he was glad the memories of living dragons were not clearer.

Yet the beacon he was drawn to, the mirror now that he was close enough to see, was solid, as solid and tangible as the towers themselves. Feynriel looked up the mirror's length, thinking of the matching mirror in Merrill's apartment and sucking in a breath.

"Who comes to this place?" A sharp voice demanded from somewhere between the bones of a dragon.

"Who is already here?" Feynriel retorted, his slender, long-limbed dream-shape twisting around in ways his body could never have managed.

"What are you? I have seen many things, here, but never like you are..." An elf wavered into existence beside Feynriel, eyes hard and sharply curious. "There is Tevinter about you."

"Not too much, I hope," Feynriel answered, with a wry snort utterly unsuited to his shape.

"You are not one of them." The elf gestured to the shadows of the residents of the place that continued on around them. "I hope you do not think to establish a kingdom, here, in this place. Some things are better left undisturbed, a fact Tevinter has always been slow to embrace."

"A kingdom?" Feynriel echoed, looking the elf up and down. For all that he spoke with authority, this elf did not look particularly intimidating, with his simple tunic and a bald scalp that reflected the glow of ancient Tevinter magic, but then Feynriel knew demons to use such tricks to put him off his guard. "Why would I build a kingdom here? I am just here to observe and, hopefully, to learn."

"And what were you hoping to learn," the elf asked, eyes narrowed, "here, from dead dragons and Tevinter magic?"

"I could ask you the same," Feynriel shot back.

"You could ask, but you still have not answered my first question: what are you?"

"I could ask the same of you." Feynriel's face moved as if he was trying to raise an eyebrow, but his present form had none. "I am a Dreamer. An elf, with an eye for traditional styles."

The elf's face twitched and smoothed quickly, one eyebrow actually arcing up. "You are an elf? And this is your ... traditional style? I should like to see your clan! Too much time in the Dales, I expect. You are green. Those were never meant to be taken literally."

"And how would _you_ know!?" Feynriel sputtered and crossed his too-long arms.

"I have been here a very long time, and in that time, I have seen nothing that looks like you. Not walking the Fade or the world, but only in pictures of those who once called themselves gods."

Feynriel's confusion was not pretty on the face he wore. "Called _themselves_ gods? And who are you to speak so?"

"I am a Dreamer. An elf, who has experienced the traditions you pose with." The elf smirked. "I am _called_ Solas, if you must call me."

At that name, Feynriel leaned back, the movement almost cartoonish on his long body. "'Pride'? I am sure you are called quite a few things, demon."

Solas chuckled indulgently, still in the form of an elf, still non-threatening in dress and posture. But Feynriel knew what he was dealing with, now, remembering when a similar demon had worn Marethari's face. He wasn't that scared boy any longer, and though he wished he had the Hawke brothers at his side again, he knew he didn't need them this time.

"A demon, am I? You know so little, child." Solas sighed, shaking his head regretfully.

"I am not a child," Feynriel said in a brittle voice.

"Deny that, if you wish. It does not change that you know little."

"I've studied with the Dalish and in the Imperium!" Feynriel protested, his neck straightening and shoulders drawing back. "I know a great deal! I don't know everything, but no one does."

"That is the first wisdom I've heard from you. You're right. No one knows everything, but some people know more than others. And some people only think they know. May they learn." Solas looked faintly amused. "You still do not look like an elf. Not even your ancestors would recognise that form. There were certain artistic liberties taken to express the ineffable nature of what elves once were, before the world was parted."

"And you can lead me to the truth, can you, Pride?" Feynriel scoffed, cutting Solas an exaggerated scornful glance.

"You already know the truth. An ancient elf, in physical form, is little different to any elf you have known. Most of them, anyway. Some chose to be other, but the majority were of a type you would recognise. In spirit, they are little different to any other spirit you have known, which is to say, they often reflect their purpose and their image, as Dreamers do," Solas explained gently, with only the faintest tic of irritation at being called a demon, again. "If I were to take your image to be what you are, I would say you are unsure of yourself. I would say you are unsure of what you are. You seek to be such an elf that no one would ever question your nature. And so you pursue some ancient, mythic purity of form. You cannot reach it, Dreamer. No elf born since the parting of the world can. It is long gone, however much one may wish that not to be the case."

There was something profoundly sad in that, but also, to Feynriel, something freeing. He would never be a true elf, due to his human father, but then, no one could ever be a true elf any more. But Feynriel considered the source of these words and shook his head. "And I should trust the words of a demon?"

This time Solas's sigh was one of frustration, and Feynriel held his breath, wondering, for a moment, if this was when the elf illusion would drop. But Solas did not change. "No. As for _my_ words, you should, but you won't. But you have heard them, and, if you are intelligent, you will think on them later." Solas gave Feynriel a long, measuring look. "And if you have nothing to say other than to call me a demon, then I shall be off in pursuit of more interesting conversation. Those dull-eyed Tevinter ghosts, for instance."

"Well, if you're not a demon, what are you? Pride is a demon's name," Feynriel insisted.

"I've told you what I am. It is merely a difference of age and perspective." Solas's lips tightened around something that might be amusement. "And do your own people not still name children after the Dread Wolf? Are they demons as well?"

"That's different! That's..." Feynriel's words slipped away from him as he stopped to think on it.

"Your people's names are based on their ancestors. My people's names are just as weighted. We are named for the traits others expect of us."

"Your people and my people? Didn't you just say we're both elves?" Feynriel squinted and immediately got the sense his face was performing an action for which it wasn't designed.

"Are the elves of the city 'your people' as much as those of your clan? Would you say the Ralaferins and the Lavellans are the same people? Is your clan the same as the people of the empire? There has been no singular elven tradition, no one culture to which all elves belong, except in the minds of those who came after." Solas shook his head. "'An elf' is only meaningful if one is not. You and I are no more of the same people than a Tevinter is an Orlesian."

"That is not how the Dalish see it," Feynriel said in a voice he wished was more confident. "Which you are not, by your lack of vallaslin!"

Solas's laugh was more a derisive huff of breath. "If vallaslin are the measure of a Dalish," he said scornfully, "then where are yours, O Elfiest of Elves?"

Feynriel sputtered but ultimately had no answer. Were he in his physical form, his face would be burning with embarrassment and shame. He expected this creature, demon or not, to harp on this weakness, but if anything, Solas's expression seemed to soften.

"You are better off without them," Solas assured him. He glanced to the side, to the eluvian that had drawn Feynriel's attention in the first place, looking almost wistful.

Feynriel followed his gaze. "The eluvian... you know how it works?"

"I have seen them work, yes. Few still do, now. So many were damaged, in one war or another." Solas nodded toward the shape. "This one doesn't seem to be broken, but I do not believe it can be used, right now."

"What's wrong with it?" Feynriel asked, walking over to get a better look.

"It is locked, like any well-made door can be." Solas smiled wryly. "You are also on the wrong side of the Veil, for this one. There are some on this side, but this is not one of them. This is merely a reflection of the one on the other side."

Feynriel stared at the mirror, long and hard, watching the shift of the clouds in its surface. "They were made by Dreamers, weren't they? That's how they work. Space is an illusion, in the Fade, but it's very real on the other side. If they exist on both sides, then ... they're ... using the Fade to pass pictures from one place to another. Or people, I suppose, because Tamlen and the darkspawn, but the Tevinter books only talk about showing people in far-off places." He sounded awed.

"They are doors from a time before the Veil," Solas said, smiling with relief as Feynriel caught on. "And you are almost right. Dreamers are made by the Veil. The eluvians are older even than that."

Feynriel flickered and swatted at himself. "Someone's trying to wake me. I have to go. Do you come here often?"

"No, but you may see me again." Solas nodded respectfully as the strange mural-elf disappeared.


	152. Chapter 152

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Cassandra sail to Ferelden. Cullen does not like boats.

The green sea stretched out before Cullen, as he leaned on the rail at the side of the ship. It was only a couple of days from Kirkwall to anywhere on the northern coast of Ferelden, and this was closer than Amaranthine had been. Still, the exhaustion hung over him. Boats were terrible. He couldn't sleep on boats. Cramped spaces, people too close on all sides... at least on deck, it was open. No one but the crew wanted to face the inevitable rains. He could stare out into the sky, which seemed to go on forever, and that was far preferable to the foulness below. He could pretend he was on holiday, that his husband would be along any moment with some wildly decorated, brightly coloured drink. He could almost forget that he had rebelled against the Chantry and taken the fate of Kirkwall and its mages into his own hands. He could almost forget that he was walking into a meeting with the highest ranking individuals in the Chantry, and that if things didn't go the way Cassandra hoped, he'd be in a cell within hours of arriving in Haven, and the Divine would declare an Exalted March.

He thought on that a bit, before realising he wasn't sure she had enough templars left to try that. Between the rebels and his own men, he couldn't be sure how many remained to take orders handed down from the Divine.

"Cullen, I--" Cassandra's voice began, a bit behind his shoulder, and Cullen sprung straight up like he'd been launched in an acrobat's act.

"Maker's breath!" he shrieked, turning before he touched the deck again, the cup in his hand flying into the bucket of the woman mopping the decks as he grabbed for his sword. Eyes wide, he froze, panting, and stared at Cassandra. "I didn't hear you."

Cassandra stood frozen, eyebrows creeping towards her hairline. "No, I suppose you didn't," she said slowly, eyeing Cullen's hand clutching his sword. "Are you all right?"

With great effort, Cullen uncurled his hand from around his sword's hilt, tried to stand like someone who was just casually watching the water and hadn't just jumped out of his own skin. He just ended up looking stiffer. "Oh, I'm fine," he said a little too brightly. "It's a lovely day out and... You. How are you doing?"

Cassandra folded her arms across her chest, staring him down the way he imagined she had stared down Varric. "Better than you, I suspect. I have not seen you below deck."

Cullen scratched the back of his neck. "Lovely day, like I said--" 

"And the captain says you have been spending the nights up here," Cassandra said, speaking over him.

"Lovely nights, too," Cullen replied, glancing over his shoulder at the sea. "I love the view. You can see all the stars in a way you just can't in the city."

"Which is why you look like you haven't slept since before we left Kirkwall, of course." Cassandra's eyebrows drifted up over her unimpressed eyes. "You are overcome by the beauty of the sea and sky."

"I don't like boats. I like the view. See? It all works out." Cullen cleared his throat, awkwardly. "Were you coming to ask me something?"

"I was coming to ask why you haven't been to bed since we left Kirkwall. Your bunk is untouched."

"Why would I go down there, when it's so nice up here?" Cullen shrugged and looked down into the sea, praying for something to rise up from the depths and save him from this conversation. Not for the first time, he considered that perhaps he should have stopped in the clinic for some potions, before he left -- either to force himself to sleep or to make staying awake more bearable. Whatever else could be said, he wasn't as young as he'd been the last time he'd had to do this.

"As we've established, yes." Cassandra stepped up to the rail and took in the view. "Once, I was declared the Hero of Orlais, if you can believe such things. And such lies were told. The tales in the taverns were terrible. I did not sleep well for weeks. You have that look around your eyes. Still, you wear your command well. We are not going to have a problem, once we reach our destination, are we?"

"No." Cullen squinted to focus on Cassandra's face. "I just don't like boats."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BEHOLD! THE INTERMISSION HAS ENDED!
> 
> Join us on Christmas Night (11pm EST) for the start of the next major book:  
> NO ONE EXPECTS THE ASSQUISITION!
> 
>  
> 
> ~~except you guys, because you're awesome.~~


End file.
